Your art is gift. Is warmth. Is sustenance.
In darkest hours, a taper's steady flame.
Your poem lives and sings. Makes old bones dance.
Sun shines like wise design. Like happenstance.
It tells us something. Silent. Speaks its name.
Your art is life. Is fire. Is sustenance.
I read your lines. I say them. More than once!
Twenty-four time-zones propagate your fame.
Your poem sings and breathes. Makes cold hearts dance.
Most people live half-dozing. In a trance.
Can't break the magic of their fiendish game.
Spurning the light of art (our sustenance!).
I quail before your wakeful eloquence.
My mind goes numb. My cogitation's lame.
Your poem breathes and pulses. Deaf nerves dance.
What would I tell you if I had the chance?
What would I say if I could shake off shame?
Your art is strength, endurance, sustenance.
Your poem lives. It loves. Makes dead souls dance.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
Read 155 times
Written on 2018-10-24 at 10:44
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