By brian francis
I sit and dream, and a song is born,
The words cry out for attention.
Of passion’s praise, or losses mourn,
Or simply a point of contention.
Compare the eyes to distant light,
movement to grace’s wonder.
whisper the story of a hero’s plight
or the calamity of evil’s plunder.
A voice to echo for a thousand years
it seems is most writer’s goal,
Left unread, of our greatest fears;
These pages of our soul.
Copyright ©2020 brian francis