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SilkcoRed
Poetry
Texaspilot · 51-55, M
The Old Desk
Hello night my dear old friend,
Your warmth ensconces me,
My pen in hand by candlelight,
A story yet to be.
The old wood desk with vivid scars,
On which I still yet pen,
Of battles long ago and new,
And those I've yet to win.
The morning dove calls to me,
Nearby in the willow tree,
Vestiges of another time,
And perhaps of me.
The light shines slow upon the wood,
To mark another day,
Slumber beckons yet on my mind,
With so more yet to say.
So love the one with blackened hand,
Fingers old and bent,
From somewhere oh so far away,
A message finally sent.
A poem about writing a poem
Hello night my dear old friend,
Your warmth ensconces me,
My pen in hand by candlelight,
A story yet to be.
The old wood desk with vivid scars,
On which I still yet pen,
Of battles long ago and new,
And those I've yet to win.
The morning dove calls to me,
Nearby in the willow tree,
Vestiges of another time,
And perhaps of me.
The light shines slow upon the wood,
To mark another day,
Slumber beckons yet on my mind,
With so more yet to say.
So love the one with blackened hand,
Fingers old and bent,
From somewhere oh so far away,
A message finally sent.
A poem about writing a poem
SilkcoRed
Excellent