Where Do We Poets Go
Where do we poets go;
Poets stay alive,
In a breath flying in the sun.
A passenger witnessing
Hearing everything
As flurry of images run.
With a poets succulent, mouthful
Of mirth and muse
The soul of nature can yield.
The golden honey of the sun
Stretching limitless in the horizon,
Giving to the desires of rising
Up rooted ladder one by one.
Birds taking to the air,
Smell the coming of rain,
Feel the electrical current vain
Of lighting flashing bare.
An enchantment door left open,
Idyllic waves caressing way yonder,
Beauteous canvas of confection nectar
The moment one steps through.
With a poets succulent, mouthful
Of mirth and muse
The soul of nature can yield.
11/28/2020
Poem On Poetry Muse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Beata Agustin
Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2020
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