Poetry

In the grace of the dawn

I rose,

With the sun,

To read a book of prose.

Before the early morning light had gone,

And heat severed from me enjoyment of the new day,

I opened the blinds

To give admittance to this first morn of May,

On which sunlight streamed vibrantly in from across the lawn.

 

I, in awe of one author’s mastery,

Obtained a pencil and paper,

And copied a poem entitled “Tapestry.”

With little time to fawn

Over the appearance of my new treasure,

I took myself to the kitchen,

Ready to eat, all in good measure.

 

Now, to don

The cap of time,

And to follow my journey into the realm of the creation

Of such works of art as may be considered fine.

That May morn the lines had been drawn

For the road I was about to traverse.

Absorbed by the intricacies of rhyme and meter,

I immersed myself in verse,

Seeking to convey a message by manipulating words like pawns.

 

Now, with experience as my guide,

I seek something from the years which have passed:

Recognition from one who has not lied,

And a victory to look back upon.

Not an illusion,

But a poem, to be read and wondered over

For its precision and ebullition.

 

Then, with the days of my youth bygone,

And the extent of my experience

At its finest dimensions,

I will be able to look over the essence

Of that which has shaped my life--a phenomenon

That such a thing could be preserved so well.

Poetry is a pastime with the ability to foster creativity,

And a way for one to receive recognition before the pall

Has been laid and the day withdrawn.

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