Her name is Poetry and I'm his pen hath a sword of quill his knight in hidden,
A sweet damsel in distress a her with a dainty glee Her black ebony threads, scented Lily of valley.
With a drop-dead simper and a cunning sullen whimper Her two almond marbles utterly lured my sight sparked with beating trembles a soul with murky blight
Poetry held thy palm embraced my withered soul. I was her little prince, her was thy only rose Her existence became my song, with a melody resonating-pierced through my ears.
Poetry is a love with thorns and sympathy Poetry is a puzzle, I, her missing piece. Poetry is a pill-a drug-my cure Poetry is a soul, my hope my life, my entire being.
---
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
