There I sit everyday a slave to the quill
Brought to the desk by the image of her immaculate countenace
She provided the impetus for creation of a new man and eroded his will
A poet or a puppet? For either side, he has no assurance
As of now he holds nothing, the quill belongs to her
And all of his divine seeming suspended in its ink
To capture the frame of all things, he tossed away for the delusion of a forever
With her, An unreasonable fellow! But love neither reasons nor thinks
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POETRY ; MOUTHPIECE OF ALL
PoetryPoems of the sad, broken, the joyous, the wanderers, and the eternally pondering minds. Everything that so besieged us since the inception of time, is an unwritten poem. Even though dead in the eyes of mankind, poetry can rejuvenate this flourishing...
