This craft has laden me with quills,
A porcupine of man distills
Whene’er I resolve to write.
Like seals that frequent jet black seas,
Skin stains dark to ink degrees,
When wells are in my sight.
A language lost my thinker hones,
Verbiage swathing long-bare bones
When muses laurels weave.
Worlds find form within wet lines,
Nations of parted valentines,
Whenever I wish to leave.
Could you tell what this poem was about?
Comments
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A beautifully written poem with a unique rhyming sequence. A real pleasure to read.
John
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Thanks, John. This is one of those rare poems (well, rare for me) in that I didn't think out what I wanted to write, I just knew I felt like writing something, and out it came, heh. I had fun with it, and I'm glad you liked it as well.
~G~
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