A poet does not write, he only dreams,
Capturing vivid images in ink;
And those that read oft wonder what he means
And yet perhaps more often, what he thinks.
One moment here of death and wretchedness,
Another yet of life and love enshrined,
Of peace and harmony and endless bliss
And next of hapless wights in chains confined.
But may his writing ever be of truth;
May he remain all faithful to his creed;
May with his pen stroked stirrings there induce,
Some poignant thought that measures word or deed.
Thoughts in black ink poetic pens bedight,
That words in harmony may give us sight.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.