03-07-2013, 07:42 PM
The fruit is dry, where is the juice? Poet's blood never dried this fast!
The river is sand, where is the flow? Rains of rhyme, storm of the past.
The hall is bare, where are the souls? No one will speak, or no one dare.
The page is blank, where are the words? Merciful muse, have a care.
The pen is still, where is the hand? Not a jot! The brave have gone!
Poets sleep, the night is long, the dreams are dull, I am alone.
For serge. I will go out in the midday sun and meet you...as you have nothing else to do.
tectak
2013
The river is sand, where is the flow? Rains of rhyme, storm of the past.
The hall is bare, where are the souls? No one will speak, or no one dare.
The page is blank, where are the words? Merciful muse, have a care.
The pen is still, where is the hand? Not a jot! The brave have gone!
Poets sleep, the night is long, the dreams are dull, I am alone.
For serge. I will go out in the midday sun and meet you...as you have nothing else to do.
tectak
2013