Poets are ethereal beings,
Transcending the mundane with their ink-stained wings.
They weep as the moon's whispers echo,
Loneliness taking form, a melancholic tableau.
Their verses, like stars, adorn the night sky,
Metaphors dance, painting dreams up high.
Yet gravity's allure, a cosmic spell,
Pulling worlds into the black hole's well.
Poets are enigmatic souls,
In gardens, they find myths untold.
Seeds sown with passion's pulsating beat,
Nurtured by the heart's fervent heat.
But alas, beetles disrupt the serene,
Marring the atmosphere with a darkening sheen.
Still, poets persist, unyielding to strife,
Crafting beauty from the chaos of life.
They bemoan within their topsy-turvy verse,
Words intertwined, a funeral dirge.
Yet from the depths of their poetic despair,
A symphony of emotions fills the air.
Oh, poets are peculiar, that much is true,
Their hearts a canvas, painting life anew.
In their tears and laments, a sacred art,
Unveiling the mysteries of the human heart.
So let them be weird, these poets divine,
Their enchanting words, a timeless shrine.
For in their strangeness, a glimpse we see,
Of the magic that lies within you and me.
YOU ARE READING
THE PREMISE OF LOVE
PoetryMy Poetry, the art form of the soul, is an exquisite tapestry of language that weaves together emotions, thoughts, and experiences with skillful craftsmanship. It is a captivating expression of the human spirit, transcending time and culture, to tou...
