What fires burn in this feverish mind!
And from the ashes spring ardent words,
Like the phoenix rising up to heaven,
Leading flocks of diaphanous birds
Mimicking the tides, thoughts ebb and flow
Ceaselessly, as those of the ocean;
Like one possessed, I surrender control,
Jotting down every whim and notion
Angst and rapture mingle together
As I ponder each new assignment;
Vague concepts, dispatched from a remote source,
Invade my mind, seeking refinement
Transient verses perch upon my pen,
Now my minions, I must guide them home;
With care, I place them upon the blank page --
Trumpeting the birth of a new Poem!
Dare I hope my words be remembered
Immortally, as our God must be,
Bringing joy and comfort to burdened hearts,
Like a prayer recited faithfully
My words cannot be held prisoners
In a box meant for decaying remains;
But rather, these poems I lovingly pen
Must soar alongside heavenly strains
I care not if few sad tears are shed
For my folded hands and eyelids closed;
But when Death commands that my voice be still,
Grieve for the poems that went uncomposed!
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 1:23 PM UTC
What fires burn in this feverish mind!
And from the ashes spring ardent words,
Like the phoenix rising up to heaven,
Leading flocks of diaphanous birds
Mimicking the tides, thoughts ebb and flow
Ceaselessly, as those of the ocean;
Like one possessed, I surrender control,
Jotting down every whim and notion
Angst and rapture mingle together
As I ponder each new assignment;
Vague concepts, dispatched from a remote source,
Invade my mind, seeking refinement
Transient verses perch upon my pen,
Now my minions, I must guide them home;
With care, I place them upon the blank page --
Trumpeting the birth of a new Poem!
Dare I hope my words be remembered
Immortally, as our God must be,
Bringing joy and comfort to burdened hearts,
Like a prayer recited faithfully
My words cannot be held prisoners
In a box meant for decaying remains;
But rather, these poems I lovingly pen
Must soar alongside heavenly strains
I care not if few sad tears are shed
For my folded hands and eyelids closed;
But when Death commands that my voice be still,
Grieve for the poems that went uncomposed!
