Christopher

Another poem,
To write,
To read,
To say in my head.

Why can't I write like days of olde?
With words so sophisticated.

I wish I could.
For with just a whisper I could soothe the soul,
And make the heavens sing.

Not like mine previous.
So barbaric in style,
or fresh in style?
All the while getting me nowhere.

At least nowhere physical,
As my mind lifts itself to reach mine heart.
There it sits waiting for something more,
Something greater,
Deeper,
More profound.

But what is it that I yearn for?
Something I can grasp?
Can my mind grasp it?
Can my heart?
I wish I knew.

Maybe it's something I cannot find.
It must be given?
A gift.
Can I earn it?
Can I request it?
How? If I know not what it is?

Oh I'm stuck!
Babbling!
Wasting time!
I can't even satisfy my rattle for rhythm!

How sad not to rhyme!
Not to rhythm!
Not to satisfy!
Why? Why!

Perhaps next time?