the poet

poet.jpeg

a calm, quiet evening snoozes
in the paling light,
a gentle warmth filling the hearts
of people who laze through time
as if it hung on trees.
a noiseless peace
spreads like morphine
through the blood of the busy.
restless hearts take a breath,
loud minds switch to mute.
on edge of night, in the stillness
even the rivers flow a little slower
upon the sleepy hour.
yet a bundle of minds
still buzz and bustle
whizz and warble,
ponder and peg.
they wonder and wish,
fizz and flounder,
hum and hope.
and these wistful wordsmiths are those
who write poetry.

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14 thoughts on “the poet

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