The Bleeding

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

Published by

B. F. O'Connor

Born and raised in the idyllic environment of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. A rural paradise perfect for a roving childhood. Now living in the desert southwest, with a flock of parrots, a pigeon, and Three dogs.

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