High On A Hill © Poem by Roann Mendriq

High on a hill, where the wind whistles low,
and whispers sweet secrets to flowers below;
Where neon green grasses ripple like waves,
bowing and swaying at the foot of dark caves.

A tremendous tree grows here and towers,
over the land bespeckled with flowers;
It branches reach for diamond white skies,
watching the world with emerald eyes.

Beneath this grand tree, writers in silence,
write with a quiet, desperate, defiance;
Onward they write, on sepia pages,
For centuries now, throughout all the ages.

They write of the songs, that yet are unsung,
They write of the tales, for the old and the young;
They write of their thoughts, in mystical verse,
They write prose concisely, lucid and terse.

Each writer sits quiet, then pauses to think,
of words that dance blithely in invisible ink;
Tho' quiet, each writer is never forlorn,
because when you're writing, you can't be alone!

You can be all you want, you get to choose,
No one dare berate, insult and abuse!
Each writer is smiling, laughing within,
for each story that ends, one more must begin!

It is here that you can be safe, strong and free,
for this tree, gentle friend, is God's poetry...