I follow the path of poets of old. Their voices beckon me into the fold, Many cut short in the days of their prime, but nevertheless remembered in rhyme. . For somehow in the throes of death, They cry out with mortal breath “O kindred spirits, living or departed, carry on the work I started.”Continue reading “The Poet”
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The Poet
I follow the path of poets of old. Their voices beckon me into the fold, Many cut short in the days of their prime, but nevertheless remembered in rhyme. For somehow in the throes of death, They cry out with mortal breath “O kindred spirits, living or departed, carry on the work I started.” ForContinue reading “The Poet”
