Why Are We Here
I have died by sword, by pox;
in my dotage years, at birth;
interred in many a box.
I eternal roam this earth
in one form or another;
I will forever be a
child of another mother.
With this soul, I play, replay;
constant will until I find
that for which all men do search;
inner calm and peace of mind.
Copyright © Terry Miller | Year Posted 2023
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment