I sit upon a walnut bench
(The mildew leaves a reeking stench),
I take my only pen
Then gently I begin.
A single scratch across the page
Sends colors bursting from their cage;
A mighty symphony,
A quiet melody.
The candle's flame goes up & falls,
Strange shadows dance across the walls;
A waltz without a song
As smiling moon looks on.
A frigid draft sweeps through the air
Yet I can feel a warmth so fair
Of summer's kind embrace,
As clouds around me lace.
Elven kingdoms reach abroad,
Whilst dwarves, in tunnels deep, do trod.
Yes, hammers forge the sword,
But man doth write the word.
Empires great beyond compare
Do steal and conquer everywhere,
But winter's cold unloving touch
Can tear them down with strength like such
Of crashing waves & tearing winds,
For to such things creation bends,
Yet far above all earthly power
Life with beauty fair doth tower.
Who, like trees, can feel the breeze?
Who, like birds, can touch the sky?
Who, like sun, can light the dark?
Who, like stars, can heaven reach?
Forever all these things holdfast,
Forever all these things hold true,
For all creation, first to last,
Each tiny creature He foreknew.
The final word's at last in place,
The tapestry unfurls with grace.
I gaze with one last look
Then slowly close the book.
For though the sword has sharpened blade
The pen can bend the armed brigade
Until the final hour.
Such is the writer's power.
YOU ARE READING
Whispered Songs
PoetryA collection of poems, most of them telling stories. Tales of worlds beyond, as well as stories of the plain beauty of that which we know.
