Whispers of a Wandering Soul

A poem is the funeral pyre bright,
Of pulsations once exhumed from the deep,
Now still, yet present in the waning light;
Fueled by the flame of memories we keep.

A poet gathers thought and hope anew,
As golden hours paint the sky’s embrace,
Where burnished hues in quietude imbue
The heart with echoes of a timeless grace.

Poetry, a dream in words unconfined,
Garbed in the hues of longing’s soft caress,
With verses meandering, sweetly entwined,
A tapestry of whispered tenderness.

It takes but one soft whisper, light as air,
To free the wandering soul from despair.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

a poem is freedom for the soul....
I like your sonnets because I barely notice the rhyme, and yet the rhythm is just perfectly timed.
Powerful lyrics.
j.

[redd Brick Keshner]

Thanks for the guardrails j, attempting to get on that freeway to poetic Utopia.

[Tumi]

Every poet who loved your wonderful piece,
great rhythm and rhymes, it improved the flow

[redd Brick Keshner]

Thanks tumi, your feedback is very useful!

[Dave W.]

Good stuff, the line "A tapestry of whispered tenderness." is so true, aren't we just trying to create a picture of words. thank you

[redd Brick Keshner]

Indeed, Dave W. Thank you! Poetry is painting with words and that is a wonderment.