Treasure Island

Leria Hawkins

(39 forever / Sweet Carolina)

Old Wood


My poet’s pen has no rage
No magic ink to grace the page
Tis more so just a tedious tap
To line the page, with useless scrap
My poet’s mind has no flair
Beyond the scribbles sprawling there
Tis rubbish of the typical kind
Leaking from an arid mind
My poet’s eyes are full of glass
Too long troubled by the past
Laboring just to find a way
To rise above what others say
My poet’s ears are made of stone
Too deaf to hear the robins song
Too cold to recognize decay
While grace and harmony drifts away
My poet’s heart is kept in chains
Is poorly nourished, fraught with stains
There are no treasures buried here
Just my muse…my puppeteer

Submitted: Friday, May 31, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, September 04, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

Old Wood
Date: May 31,2013

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Copyright © 2013 Leria Hawkins, All Rights Reserved

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