The Poem Will Write Itself In Time Poem by Luke Easter

The poem will write itself in time,
Turn a soul into meaningful rhyme,
Surely then the hand is just a means,
Giving all of its hopes and dreams.

Letters, words, verses and stanzas,
Poetical works in a lyrical bonanza,
To tell a story creating myth or fact,
So the reader knows where you’re at.

Or do they without their own express,
Unable to confirm, deny and confess,
A lack of understanding or willingness,
Excuses prepared for failure of the test.

However, by what means do they expect?
Forgiveness without a true heart of regret,
Sincere in seeking compassionate rights,
While carrying on with the defeated fight.

Okay, together we stand, divided we fall,
Do you cause flight or an answer the call?
Should the public feel viewing your work?
A call to arms or a retreat from being hurt?

Do only winners take time to rehearse?
For the best I check with my sister first,
The Glamorous one and I rebuke the lies,
We’ll never corroborate simply to get by.

Cleveland to Rades flowing east or west,
Personal sacrifice no necessity for quest,
Always performing to our ultimate best,
Only upon completion shall there be rest.

Stop! In the mirror, what’s on your face?
A smile of love or frowns from disgrace?
It should never matter what look you see,
Under all circumstances only type victory.

Remember, a poem is meant to tell a story,
Not exalt or magnify your personal glory,
Because, it’s almost certain when you do,
Interest from readers is assuredly through.

As they seek your knowledge to help & guide,
It is not the time for you to run away or hide,
Nor shun the weak by a selfish arrogant pride,
All need shelter from the deadly crimson tide.

In life as in the ocean big fish eat the small fish,
Unlike flooded waters we fight back with a kiss,
A sting of righteousness composed in the word,
Recited in harmony until every syllable is heard.

In a world so complicated it is utterly absurd,
Difficulty attached to complexity may disturb,
Uneven flow by a cosmetic driven simple life,
Living a fatality free environment is our right.

Will harvested fruit come from a dead vine?
Are there any unwritten or meaningless lines?
Might you ever find silver in a diamond mine?
Eventually, the poem will write itself in time.

w/Glamorous Enigma