Over the fading horizon
Over the fading horizon Riddle me this. What makes a poem a poem? If all words have meaning don't they too have stories, don't they too bleed a rhythm to those less fortunate enought to hear it. A mother's solemn prayers each night before bed for her prodigal son, to those with a sinister intent in their hearts hoping poetic justice is done, to the weeping girl soaked in rains plagued by a love unrequited, the silence in your mind knowing a loved one is no more and now gone, the burden most families carry to their daughters truths they've silenced. To me, it's all of them in action, poems yet to be penned down in ink for your own consumption, like the leaves in the trees out in the field, these words yellow in the wind, forgotten like old friends, life happened to all of them, where once seeds grew a plenty now a barren field. The poetry in those unspoken brought out in you a fragile skin, and with your exposed heart on ...
