Acrostic: Art of the Muse
©March 22nd 2023, Olan L. Smith
Albeit, times are harsh, jagged at the edges―
Restless souls drag chins, taste injustice's filthy loam,
Terrible mortars rain down like drops of thunder
On blameless bodies, waxing fluids on our spiritual home,
Forever adrift, and a mist of vigor rises from earthly abodes.
The tent rips―the wolf walks in unopposed,
Here he ravages virtue, righteousness is erased,
Extinct until the madness is satisfied by blood of purity.
Mostly, the human lust for more is never satisfied
Until the perfect note rings through the air to reach
Surviving hosts, then everywhere it is time to reach out,
Extinguish madness and allow hope's muse to sing.
YOU ARE READING
Poems from the Quill, by Olan L. Smith
Poetry"Poems from the Quill" is where I place current works that don't fall into other collections. It is here you will find obscure poems that range from constraint to free-verse. I began this collection as a contest entry, years ago, for what was then t...
