Poetry

The song of life,

The mirror to the soul,

The very language of love,

For all who are unloved.

Like a serene river it flows,

In the heart of the poet,

Emboldening the flowers of hope,

To bloom in the fleshy plain,

Amid the bosom of his silent pain.

Beneath its tender arms,

The soul seeks comfort,

The budding roots of ease,

Evoked springs in his mind,

Leaving the gust and gale of life behind.

The lord plant the seeds,

That thrive into thorns,

Bearing the rhythm of his life,

With poetry that keeps him alive.

Nurturing poetry at the core,

Is the only thing he adore.

In the midst of his battle,

He has so much to celebrate.

With poetry, being his only way to liberate.