One poet writes, his hand is tired
Of pleading rightness to the world.
His angry words follow behind him,
Leaving the trail of heavy loads.
Some hear the heart of poet beating,
When ink disperses through the page,
And words appear, while he’s sitting
Baffled with coward pace of rage.
Some see the eyes of poet closing,
When nothing else comes to his mind.
His soul will guide his hands,
While causing, perfect arrangement to be lined.
2004.
One poet writes to Langston Hughes
© Copyright: Slimka, 2004
Свидетельство о публикации №104042000558
Свидетельство о публикации №104042000558
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