Let me think a while
on if I should defile
those who went before
from yonders' shore
to yesterdays' gates
with my current state.
I am a man lost,
A boat - ocean tossed,
with a broken bow.
I am ready to bow.
To keep my every word.
Best they stay unheard
than to taint the serenity
found in every tree:
The dead's resting place.
Are my words torture or grace
upon the feeble paper
that holds the faded vapor
Of forefathers, and moms
who stay through storms
within the woods fiber:
The canvas of the writer.
Should I write upon the breath
of those to see death?
Copyright © 2010 Leslie Alexis
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem