He never quite understood
The situations he'd been in, but
His eyes reflected
The decade of 1950s
Something between his muse
And him rose; it was cold
Every syllables that escaped
Their mouths became sharp
What once was a disease;
No cure was found–
Chaos reigned
Until 1955, everything changed.
Uncertainty was planted
In his mind–would he still be the one?
Anxiety's best friend
Was his muse and him
The climate fell apart
Just like their love–
But they just needed a break,
Both healed as the year came to an end.
He thought it was unfair
Love wasn't distributed equally.
Poverty rose in his heart,
Adressed as overreaction
Wouldn't it be boring
If Elvis wasn't born on the 1950s?
The decade he compares
Their lowest lows and highest highs
He'd go back and forth just
To understand the situations he saw
He'd go to the 1950s
Just to come back to the 2020s
It would be unfair to be blinded by
Nostalgia that wraps the eyes
Unfair to be blinded
By the smiles and not the agonies
YOU ARE READING
The Ballads Of The Wordsmith For His Poet
PoetryExaltation given by the muses of this Poet's sublime. As this poet escape the asylum he's been trapped, he'd find glory into writing epics and ballads. As the wind chimes, a knock of desperation escapes his everlasting pain.
