I am writing, for all the lilacs in my range of vision
and for all the siren summers that beg for my return.
I am writing for my heart to bloom and flower,
beneath the cupid bow of heaven's hour;
I am forming a poem on the tip of my mind
then dotting it with flourish letters of love.
I am shaping my poetic thoughts,
above the sky line of a bran new day.
I am a poet of old in the body of a young one
with poetic flair I have climbed every wrung
but for all the tea in china, I could never stop
writing my verses, ... for poetry is my life.
May 27
May 27, 2026 at 12:38 PM UTC
I am writing, for all the lilacs in my range of vision
and for all the siren summers that beg for my return.
I am writing for my heart to bloom and flower,
beneath the cupid bow of heaven's hour;
I am forming a poem on the tip of my mind
then dotting it with flourish letters of love.
I am shaping my poetic thoughts,
above the sky line of a bran new day.
I am a poet of old in the body of a young one
with poetic flair I have climbed every wrung
but for all the tea in china, I could never stop
writing my verses, ... for poetry is my life.
