Encomium

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 The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2018-10-24 at 10:44

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Bibek
Ah, how well you eulogize poesy, its warmth, its sustenance. A villanelle that ought to be memorized and read aloud. Quite an accomplishment!

Bibek
2018-10-25


josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
Thomas... my words fail me. I can only use yours to comment.

“I quail before your wakeful eloquence.
My mind goes numb. My cogitation's lame.
Your poem breathes and pulses. Deaf nerves dance.”
2018-10-24