Where Do We Poets Go
Ink of life cannot bleed for eternity,
so I place dried petals in between,
crucial chapters of my memoirs.
When we stop breathing poetry,
our crestfallen pen, left in silence -
where do we poets go?
Is there a special place,
where the ink flows forever,
like waterfalls of mercy -
where thirst quenches
through poetic potions.
Releasing unspoken words -
can you hear the messages?
Floating in the tepid breeze,
brushing against your face,
forming goose pimples.
When our spirits make love to poetry,
we radiate like rays of sunshine
warming the world.
We do not speak poetry,
it whispers to us,
like spotlights in the sky,
soothing scars upon the moon.
When we cry poetic tears,
we pour like raindrops,
refreshing seasonal blossoms.
Our muse battles storms,
like lilac lilies in the snow.
We illuminate like a timeless rainbow,
absorbing all spectrum of vibrancy.
Glistening after clouds clear,
from red to yellow to green.
We the word collectors,
soul connectors,
forever weaving like
spiders spinning cobwebs.
What becomes of us
when our pen's shadow
no longer appears.
We may never write the perfect poem,
but poetry reminds us we are alive -
as our words become immortal.
Simple Musing
Silent One
25 November 2020
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