Your words arrive like echoes deep,
A whisper soft, a vow to keep.
"Be the best," you gently write,
A spark, a hope, a guiding light.
"Kind, caring, considerate"—
Each line a warmth deliberate.
To listen well, to hug, to see,
A kindness shaped in poetry.
You walk with thoughts and music near,
Till swans arrive, serene and clear.
"Spring is on her way," you say,
With nature’s touch in verse’s sway.
And when the world turns cold and gray,
You pen the truths none dare to say.
"Enough," you cry, "of power's reign,"
While hunger weeps in silent pain.
Yet still, in words, you find a way,
To turn the night into the day.
"Ideas awaken you softly,"
With whispers bold yet never costly.
So, poet bold, let verses flow,
For in your ink, the bright flames grow.
The world may waver, doubt, or bend,
But words like yours will never end.
At 5 a.m., the words arise,
like dawn-lit waves in endless skies.
Similes, whispers, metaphors bright,
Ideas stir before the light.
"For the youngest, for those to come,"
For dreamers crafting songs unsung.
"For today, for now, for peace,"
For kindness' touch that will not cease.
Boundaries drawn, firm and wise,
"Set them, hold them, let them rise."
Not all will stay, some will go,
But the poet knows—so it must flow.
Swans at sunset, drifting free,
Rodgers and Astaire upon the sea.
A melody hums, a chorus sings,
Does it hold truth? Does it have wings?
We once were blind, now we see,
Through lyric, verse, eternity.
The poet’s heart beats strong and fast,
A voice, a beacon—built to last.
