The Poet’s Lament
a poet’s heart is stitched with ghosts
inked in sorrow, bled in prose
each word a whisper, a breath, a sigh
woven from shadows that never die
by candle’s flicker, by midnight’s call
the verses rise, the echoes fall
secrets carved in tattered rhyme
lingering past the reach of time
the quill, a blade, it cuts so deep
wounds that fester, wounds that weep
yet in the dark, the lines take shape
a ghostly hand, a silken scrape
no rest for souls that write in pain
their voices spill like autumn rain
trapped in pages, bound in ink
forever speaking from the brink
so read these words but read them well
for poets live where phantoms dwell
their hearts still beat in lines they weave
even in death, they never leave
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
