POETRY.
Time is a river, perpetually flowing.
Poetry like leaves shed in the fall;
Aimlessely floating but turning and showing,
Colours and styles, some to enthrall.
Millions of volumes start on this journey;
Fragile boats of word pictures painted.
Only to drown in the rapids of blarney;
Waterfalls of reason leave many wasted.
Nobility of thought expressed with allure;
Buoys some on while others just wallow.
Only a few, so very few will endure,
To inspire and to bless the ages that follow.
Pikey.
by Ron Pike on Sunday, February 28, 2010
