Her Name Is Poetry
Who is this sprite, this nymph that haunts my inner self,
That dances on the fringes of the shadows of my mind?
What spirit penetrates beneath the surface of my being,
That makes me pledge my heart, implore her love
And then, with flippant air, will pawn my soul,
For our brief written intercourse?
She teases me with our encounters,
Leaving me at her capricious whim
To stand within the palest speculation of my thoughts.
She is the light within the mellow gloom
Of my reflective imperfections.
A diva with the range of voice that shames
All heaven's choir;
A vixen, with an angel's grace,
Who wears the habit of a nun;
Who speaks her lines with eloquence,
Or with a sailor's tongue.
I would give my all for what is never to belong to me,
The joy of her everlasting embrace.
For then, I could write melodies
That would ascend into the rhythm of eternal time,
Leaving to the newborn a thousand beauties
Of thought and style.
poem by Lynn W. Petty
Added by Poetry Lover
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