This, as is all I write was drawn from within, the quill being my conduit from heart to soul to paper.

The poet

The Poet.
In garret lost in mists of time wrapped in a cold cocoon
A sage undisciplined in prose elite
The bleakness of anonymity pervades his lonely room
His task, his wish, to his good self to greet
To pen with eloquence and truth those thoughts that dwell in shade
His quill held in a hand honest and true
To speak in lingua franca unafraid of cruel tirades
His soul to bear to all varied in hue
His thoughts encompass realms of endless lands of mystery
Traversing paths now overgrown with time
A never ending need to rid the cloak of obscurity
And dwell in perfumed gardens oh sublime
He writes his quill an arrow dipped in wells of loss and pain
His scroll denoting ambiance with hell
His silent battle, the forces waging war devoid of blame
As through Dante's gates of fire he now fell

He reaches in his sackcloth bearing distant memories
Removing one clad in deceit and lies
With tears revolving round the words as notes in harmony
He places them before your very eyes
He tells of love of loss of pain in decades of their years
In words of understanding and of care
As through the night 'neath candle light the honesty of tears
Fall on prose composed by those who dare
And as he writes his words poetically upon the page
His thoughts of love now temper those of blame
A mixture of flawed innocence, laced with an endless rage
A magnificent array of truths eternal flame
And now his poem completed in the fullness of it's time
Lays torn and crumpled blazing on the fire
For thoughts of worth invade his ever unsure fragile mind
For the love he wrote of made this poet a liar.

Poetry by Brendan Finbarr Tully
Read 551 times
Written on 2005-10-18 at 12:29

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chasingtheday The PoetBay support member heart!
love, we can put the words down on paper a million times, but would they ever truly do justic the feelings we hold.