I love poetry. I love all kinds of poetry. It can be
lyrical, free verse, blank verse, sonnets, terza rima…and on and on.
I like to write free verse; however, rhyming poetry has a
special grip on my eyes, mind, and pen. Maybe it is a residual of my love for
the verse composed during the Georgian, Regency, and Victorian eras.
The names of Shelley, Byron, Blake, Southey, Keats, the
indomitable Brontë sisters, and many more have left their undying marks on me.
A Sentient being cries for unfound advocacy
Neglected and forgotten in lost despondency
A railway track follows a fading fate
Forged from a grinding thing—disconsolate
A final chance for realized recompense
Vainly looking for some innocence
To reconstruct what should have been
A tattered page renews not again
Dreams can be fleet and much too hard to hold
Yet unrealized, remain inside and fortune not always favors
the bold
And still within this lack, this dearth, can you hear a
call?
It matters how you rise, not how oft you fall
Like a final shift of clarity
To ever wage war with the insanity.
No comments:
Post a Comment