Dancing, weaving, and flying

The currents of a fantasy

Poetry is an artform

That can be of love or tragedy

 

Blossoms bloom to life

Rose pedals wither and fall

Always breathing and yearning

Life and death to all

 

They are great teachers

They can be monsters

They are valuable friends

They can mean the end

They can destroy youth

They are hidden truth

They can always die

They are forever alive

 

When seen with perversed eyes

Words can be weapons of steel

When caressed with gentle hands

Words are voices that heal

 

I once used these words in tears

Reminiscing of pain and sorrow

Now I speak words of triumph

Celebrating life and another tomorrow