| by brian francis I sit and dream, and a song is born, The words cry out for attention. Of passion’s praise, or loss’s 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 ©2021 brian francis |
The Bleeding
Published by
Wordsmith: At The Forge 