Bereft was soul in spilled bask
and thought was beauty, in dream-poets,
inside clouded heather of dew;
and loose-leafed pages of history
were simple etching of poetry,
so La was the only word
that came to open minds,
and this substitute faith
came as leanings of verbs
and she taught me -- to period my wordings.
When the hand was scrawled callous
and careless drawings were left behind,
but they spoke of more
then that which was lettered,
so my hand did lift, of helped accordance
as a softer finger did trace her star;
and the La was the last word
before unvoiced gratitude.
Author notes
Laura Lamarca -- A poet on this site that has helped me mature, and grow proud. She is beautiful and her soul is pure and honest. She is known as La.
Criticism Is Very Much Welcomed -- I Am Here To Learn
Comments
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What a lovely poem for Laura....yes, we do need to support and encourage and keep young peots like you writing...we will have need of your wisdom and great words in the very near future. That you are open to help says very much.
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I've had such a trying week and just wanted to curl up in a little ball and weep, then I came online and saw this and yes I weep, but it is because I feel loved and I thank you from my heart for that. You truly are a gift and I'd be so very lost without you. I love you son and am so proud to be your mommy 
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Thanks very much this is good and thanks for enetring my competetion
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