Something Beautiful
There’s a girl, a poet, pen in hand
Sitting beneath a maple tree
Trying to find something beautiful
To let her words run free
She spends the hours pondering
While her mind is busy wandering
And each word lingers an hour or two
Then scratched right off the page
A book of partial prose, unfinished
For this young beautiful sage
There’s a gentleman of forty-something
For years he played guitar
Trying to find something beautiful
“I thought it would take me far”
The chords he was composing
Were a closure never closing
And by the time his whisky drowned
His passions swam away
A heart’s crescendo in the past
With beautiful unborn tunes
And in a world of labels, plastic
Sucking on the media’s breast – here we are
Trying to find something beautiful
Apart from all the rest
It’s morphine for the minds that wonder
Into literary words of prose
And never find the beautiful something
Where the spirit of Keats’ mastery flows
It’s Novocain for hearts that compose
The melodic chords hidden within
Yet fail to find that beautiful something
That Lennon’s ghost could also sing
For the many, it rests
Beneath the tomb stone reading:
Here lies the hearts and minds of those whose fire
Burnt out years before they
Found something beautiful
Copyright © Herb Alyètte | Year Posted 2010
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