This poem is about writing poems and all that this entails.
Words inked
With no illusion of
Grandure or fame
Nor a selling
Of thought and soul
Scraps of paper
Coveted like gold
The poet
Remains nameless
Hands reaching
For the pen
Time and time again
To scribe a love
Of symbolic verse
A harmony to transcend
Past this poetic existence
Into lost caverns
Within the mind
Escaping briefly
To form prose
Stroked in
Subliminal discretion
A wonderlust
Of the scribes
Passion defined
copyright.2007AngelaThompsonScott
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A wonderlust
Of the scribes
Passion defined.
I think it's Wonder? and Wonder! that drives the poet to write. - David
Continue, my friend, the future is bright. Happy Thanksgiving.
Emile
Regis