I was the the wind that convoked and, Spelled the name of the poet whose soul was encaged.
I've pondered as pluto gyrated the sun like sand
Does for the water, thus a serenade was made
Wretched was his figure when he aluded
The jail cell of his being.
So I sang to him the serenade-
I made, the quill pen I was using.
Mesmerized was he, and he followed
My quiet murmurs along the edges.
Sirens were bathing and alluring him with sorrow,
Yet he never followed because he read them in a book in ledges.
Scarlet was his cheeks as he saw
Me, his brand new muse, to be singing
The nocturne that he'd scriven
Using the quill pen from the messenger pigeon.
YOU ARE READING
The Ballads Of The Wordsmith For His Poet
PoesieExaltation 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.
