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The Poet's Pen The Poet nightly sits with pen in hand And contemplates the fleeting years of life; The hourglass is nearly drained of sand; Each grain within can tell a joy or strife. The labor's long to give each one a name To wrest some wisdom from experience; Too often phrases tend to play the same Old tired tunes from aging instruments. Undaunted by the fierceness of this fight The bard within refuses yet to die The struggle rages well into the night Impassioned soul screams loud the battle-cry. Another victory is sung again As honey flows forth from the poet's pen. Copyright 11/99, Denise Corbley Snyder |
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