A poem is the funeral pyre bright,
Of pulsations once exhumed from the deep,
Now still, yet present in the waning light;
Fueled by the flame of memories we keep.
A poet gathers thought and hope anew,
As golden hours paint the sky’s embrace,
Where burnished hues in quietude imbue
The heart with echoes of a timeless grace.
Poetry, a dream in words unconfined,
Garbed in the hues of longing’s soft caress,
With verses meandering, sweetly entwined,
A tapestry of whispered tenderness.
It takes but one soft whisper, light as air,
To free the wandering soul from despair.
