Poetry of the Undone

Epoch of Poets

There is a reason the stars don't greet us as often
The nights are darker, and the moons presence has softened
It is the same reason that the grass now sighs
To the darling wind as he passes by

With his gentle whisper and ominous wales
He tells the grass such secret tales
Of days that passed and times of note
In which held the great Epoch of Poets.

Where did all the poets go, one often ponders?
The ones that they called ethereal wanderers,
Whose hearts would walk barefoot across the soil of their minds,
Discovering demure little thoughts and fantastical finds

And using these treasures, upon discover,
Would create their great tales of redolent wonder
The ones they said awoke the sun in time for every dawn
And deciphered the smooth, rhythmic songs of the waves yawn

The ones who gave hope to the eyes who read their word art,
The ones they call the Poets; the ones set apart

While I pondered the loss of these artistic souls
I discovered a truth, a brilliant wonder untold,
That I came to know through epiphany in bloom
It caught me in a dream, while I spoke to the moon

He asked me if I would ever begin
To open my mind toward the land within
He told me we are all creatures of creation
And all of us posses an opulent imagination

We too, are the ethereal wanderers; and we shall find
That if we walk upon the soil of our minds,
The grass will dance, the stars will greet you
The Moon will retreat from his demure seclusion

And we shall discover, in creative unison,
A most wondrous and most revelational notion
We are capable of owning the title of note,
That we could too be called the Great Poets.