As the poet grew tired
Of what he had seen and
What he had known,
He turned to his garden
He picked the most beautiful,
Wild and strange flower.
A Jasmine; one rare
And unique piece of perfection
As he gazed endlessly
At this pure flower
He knew this was one,
One he could keep.
A rose in a garden of thorns
No beauty as equal to her
As the poet took care, of
The lovely flower
It changed into a human,
An extraordinary woman
With diamond eyes
And flawless looks
The poet grabbed her hand
Kissed her neck and said,
‘I am the poet and
You are my muse’
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
As the poet grew tired
Of what he had seen and
What he had known,
He turned to his garden
He picked the most beautiful,
Wild and strange flower.
A Jasmine; one rare
And unique piece of perfection
As he gazed endlessly
At this pure flower
He knew this was one,
One he could keep.
A rose in a garden of thorns
No beauty as equal to her
As the poet took care, of
The lovely flower
It changed into a human,
An extraordinary woman
With diamond eyes
And flawless looks
The poet grabbed her hand
Kissed her neck and said,
‘I am the poet and
You are my muse’
A poem i wrote 2 winters ago....
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