A Gift of the Poet's Heart

The poet's pen is always full Even when it's dry When nothing's said No words in head There's still a weeping eye The weeping eye is wonder filled With prosperity Born sad, it flows May find repose Seek sincerity A well of ink, the sincere heart It is a work of art The poet's pen Will write again Long after poem starts The poet's hand, always weaving In all the hearts of those That which he shares Or that she dares To clip one single rose The poet's gift, a rose of heart Bids for hopeful pardon The ink of thorns Sometimes it scorns Still from finest garden The finest rose, a quandary posed The weeping eye still sees The thorns, the death The shallow breath Who'll write of its beauty The pen of poet draws from well Of what it will behold Please share with me What all you see Your heart will thus unfold The poet's tears shall ever shed None shall e'er be wasted The garden¡¯s pruned The blossoms bloomed No bitter drops be tasted Written July 6th, 2001 © on Jul 06 2001 05:47 AM PST   0 • 12