Senses of the Poet
As a lonely hawk wonders the skies
All to wise, yet still she squalls and cries
Lost in seclusion of the sunrise, yet still she flies
The hawk on the horizon is passionately recognized in the poet’s eyes
As you touch the rigid surface of the wheel
Or as lazy fingers slide across surfaces of chilled steel
You’re privileged to pen to another’s appeal
The poet’s feel could be classified as surreal
Thunderous sounds appear as the floor greets the tear
Melancholy whispers ricochet sincere from the tears engineer
After the apologetic whisper are heard lust moans within the frontier
All unheard by the norm but rest profoundly inside the Poets ear
Savoring the sweet taste of a pear, taste-buds are embraced
Angelic delicacies are enjoyed, not a crumb gone to waste
The Poet relishes as a smile forms within the face
A new appreciation is encased within in the poets taste
The aroma of a dozen roses is moving like the ringing of liberty bells
But to the Poet a single daisy scent tells the of tale of tales
Speaking of scented spells over insects and how they loved well
Scents, aromas, and flavors are more attractive in the Poets keen smell
Senses are sharpened and appreciation increases
A poets is blessed to describe all the these things In pieces
A new appreciation is created and one must think in a new way
For you are privileged to use these senses every day
not really sure what im trying to say
so i'll just write another day (might as well keep rhyming)
Copyright © James Faulkner | Year Posted 2009
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