Words of passion, thoughts of gold,
In poetic fashion, truths are told.
The poet's words restoreth life,
Vice versa freed from inward strife.
He bears this deed, for with no end
His soul agrees for hearts to mend.
He knows this is no morsel task;
To every mortal he must unmask.
Weary is every vain regard.
Drained and dreary, he's now scarred.
For men love truth far less than skill;
Flowery brushes of daint more than will.
Must he push and soar not to faint,
Though sore without poetic paint;
But in the end he yet finds mirth,
Enjoying again thoughts come to birth.
by Joshua Aaron Guillory
© All Rights Reserved
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem