The Writers Soul
hand me down lies
from one generation to the next
ghosts of yesteryear haunt me
through many a historical text
reading words of wisdom
from deep thinkers of the past
none have ever written
how long childhood would last
dwelling in misery
hath prevented me
from being free
while words speak the soul,
that darkened abyss of man
thine ink is thy blood
flowing throughout the land
unstoppable violent rages
seep from invisible brooks and streams
emotions wrecking havoc
upon the forest of shallow dreams
tis' the writers curse
to glorify the hearse
within his verse
for in death itself
freedom shall reign
echoes become silent
oblivious to pain
yet we continue to write
adding to the lies
that life is best
when a soul cries
Copyright © Bob Shank | Year Posted 2005
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