My poem. I drew the “line” across the sands; vowed to hide my “age” with shimmery mica and reddish lead. Little did I know the beauty lies within the understanding that lives were taken to bury the dead.
My poem. These “soldiers of the gods…” are many, whose thoughts are known only to a few and whose reason to live is for those that believe in love.
My poem. “why not…” to cry anymore: when you’ve suffered enough to accept your fate. Stolen tears of youth, now lost and forgotten by the ravages of time.
National Poetry Writing Month is nearly at at end. To celebrate it, try your hand at some verse.