Poetry is not born of love, but pain;
The silent echoes of man’s suffering,
Its rhythmic beats, a wounded heart’s refrain,
A fallen angel’s mournful reckoning.
To suffer and to think is but to grow;
To bare, to share, to care is but to see,
In ways no savage brute will ever know—
And is the essence of humanity.
These silent words have power to touch the soul,
To cross the void and reach a kindred mind;
These symbols born of ardor meant to soothe
The common trials that afflict mankind.
If words bring solace, may these ever stand
And I bestow small comfort, pen in hand.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.