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"Oh, woe is me," so long, my words have slept
Where once they freely frolicked in the light
Dark shadows past and present danced in step
Now darkness shrouds them from this poet's sight
I see the countless colors of twilight
I sat in silence as the seasons changed
I've felt an inner peace in soft moonlight
Somewhere in there, the words became estranged
Yet, I know some will say I am deranged
That words just simply do not go to sleep
I hope when they awake, they've rearranged
In verses rhythmic, colorful, and deep
Some days when urges come, the words do not
I wonder, "Do you think it is the pot?"
by Daniel Turner
Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2020
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