Poem
Words never written, never tell tales.
Over time, we as poets, must traverse thorn trails.
Our character, must stain, to rein upon parchment.
Stringing chords, fine tuned, striking one's existence.
Paths that fade away, be coffin headstone - stiff stands.
Sand abration, become weather ring beach words on tides.
Precision imprints, scrawl adhesive - precise till to silken canvas
Alight reseding moisture that bakes pristine sand dunes - dry mouth.
Alas yest whirling storms, dusk encroach, pulling away messages
Where amidst high tides, poems are washed away, on moon beams
That our time as poets, be fleeting minutes of minute rhyme
To RIP apart, worn pieces, alight tattered memories - nevermore.
08/21/19
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Ron
Love ya!
Jane