No poet
Is filled with poise
Nor every hour awake he aches;
For lost love
Or far off islands
Half submerged in the sea,
Neither he weighs in world his price
In self- sought melancholy.
He is a restless hand
With a wineglass filled with ink
Drunk in the thoughts he have
Of the thoughts he cannot think.
stirring composition. Re-posted here: https://grumpysgiftspoetry.org/2020/08/11/rimer-the-human-anvil/
thanks for sharing your words.
Thank you very much for it my friend 😀
Eloquently versed
Thank you, 😊
You’re welcome
Subhan Allah. Loved how you said it
Thank you very much 😀….
I am glad you appreciate