The Voiceless Poet
A poet with words that never sway,
His heart was full, his mind a stream,
Yet silence cloaked his dreamlike gleam.
Oh, the voiceless poet, under the moon,
Crafting verses like a lonesome tune,
He sat by the brook with a pen in hand,
Sketching starlight on the golden sand.
The villagers spoke of his absent song,
Whispers and tales, they wandered along,
"Why does he not share the thoughts in his soul?
A tale untold, a heart that's whole."
He wandered the fields where wildflowers bloomed,
Among the sweet scents, his spirit consumed,
Each blossom a word, each petal a line,
In the still embrace of the night so divine.
One fateful eve, at the break of dawn,
He stood by the river, with courage drawn,
With a voice like thunder, he spoke to the skies,
The hidden sonnets, the world to advise.
The waters did shimmer; the echoes did dance,
The voiceless poet had seized his chance,
His words soared high on the wings of the air,
Spreading his dreams with a heart laid bare.
Now the town sings of the poet so bold,
Of stories unspoken, and visions retold,
For within every silence, a voice can ignite,
As the voiceless poet found his true light.
Copyright ©
Christen Foster
|