Tiercel
Well-known member
One poet harps on pretty things;
on baby's breath and angels' wings;
on life and love, and rites of spring
that ring in with the birds who sing.
His heart is pure and beauty grows
wherever this bright poet goes.
He plants his dreams in tidy rows
and always reaps just as he sows.
This poet writes in spritely song,
ne'er wishes ill or dares do wrong.
He dances 'round in bright parades
and takes his rest in song filled glades.
But one there is who never sings:
he mourns and writes of darker things;
of autumn's chill and tattered wings;
of shattered dreams and tarnished rings.
Melancholy and words are part
of this sad poet's lonely art.
He idles, waiting to depart
a cruel world and a crueller heart.
Hope passes by while Time assails
those guardian beams and twisted nails
which hold his dreams in urns and veils.
He tries his best. But his best fails.
One poet lives his life in dreams
and thrives on others' high esteem;
the other locks his dreams away,
allowing them to age and fade.
Eyes lose their luster, beauty fades.
Each takes a place in cracked arcades.
Reluctant dreams in chains 'til death:
Eternity in captive rest.
I mentioned something about writing this in another post, and figured I'd post it. I posted it months ago in a different thread, so here it is on it's own. Let's see how well it fares, shall we?
on baby's breath and angels' wings;
on life and love, and rites of spring
that ring in with the birds who sing.
His heart is pure and beauty grows
wherever this bright poet goes.
He plants his dreams in tidy rows
and always reaps just as he sows.
This poet writes in spritely song,
ne'er wishes ill or dares do wrong.
He dances 'round in bright parades
and takes his rest in song filled glades.
But one there is who never sings:
he mourns and writes of darker things;
of autumn's chill and tattered wings;
of shattered dreams and tarnished rings.
Melancholy and words are part
of this sad poet's lonely art.
He idles, waiting to depart
a cruel world and a crueller heart.
Hope passes by while Time assails
those guardian beams and twisted nails
which hold his dreams in urns and veils.
He tries his best. But his best fails.
One poet lives his life in dreams
and thrives on others' high esteem;
the other locks his dreams away,
allowing them to age and fade.
Eyes lose their luster, beauty fades.
Each takes a place in cracked arcades.
Reluctant dreams in chains 'til death:
Eternity in captive rest.
I mentioned something about writing this in another post, and figured I'd post it. I posted it months ago in a different thread, so here it is on it's own. Let's see how well it fares, shall we?
Last edited:
