We are the unsung poets
who toil in day for the harvests
then write at night as the wick burns
in the dark slips of our meek turns
We are the unseen poets
who invisibly raise armours
swing pens as the dark evades the light
a strip to the core of the soul,our right
We are the trampled heroes
whose halos are out-shined by thunder
and tongues tied to a word twisted silence
Our heavenly seduction of a naked dance
I am the unsung poet
inspired by love and rhythm of life
transpired by the ounce of human experience
My eternal contract that only makes sense
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 11:34 AM UTC
We are the unsung poets
who toil in day for the harvests
then write at night as the wick burns
in the dark slips of our meek turns
We are the unseen poets
who invisibly raise armours
swing pens as the dark evades the light
a strip to the core of the soul,our right
We are the trampled heroes
whose halos are out-shined by thunder
and tongues tied to a word twisted silence
Our heavenly seduction of a naked dance
I am the unsung poet
inspired by love and rhythm of life
transpired by the ounce of human experience
My eternal contract that only makes sense
