A poem about Poet’s
With no guarantees the poet’s say
They just go on in their own chosen way
Each day they start with the rising sun
To face their fate, they must go on
This search of rhymes not seen before
And places they predict are soon in store
At times, the rhymes come as if a breeze
The sway of leaves sing melodies
The clouds move by and sigh to them
And if by chance that moves their pen
Other days seem in between
They twist each word to change each scene
Not knowing if they will find a rhyme
Or let the words flow line by line
There is no rest until their thoughts unfold
They pray before they grow too old
And hope to reap a piece of Poet’s gold
For all the many poems told.
— WOLRAD
(A poem from the Wolrad collection #352)
