I read from many books <br />of many a great man <br />made immortal by <br />a magic stream of words <br />that tie together such beautiful simplicity: <br />a cloudy day <br />the rising sun <br />a setting moon <br />a forest of ashen tree <br />and sometimes within <br />exists a haunting relic <br />of emotion <br />that creeps to bed <br />with any so unlucky to <br />fall under such <br />a wondrous curse <br />and though I love <br />each and every rhyme or <br />flawless meter <br />I ponder <br />deep down <br />if I too could become <br />immortal <br />but I fear that I am too <br />late <br />the great ones all <br />long dead <br />and perhaps <br />such a wounding fear will <br />bleed the necessary ink <br />to stumble beneath my pen <br />and frame me <br />forever <br />within the page <br />that vessels such a simple brilliant act as: <br />golden ripples on a pond <br />a flower without a scent <br />the starless sky <br />a cold-handed lover <br />and maybe <br />some starry-eyed romantic <br />will genuflect to <br />the curse I have invoked <br />and dream of the <br />glorified death <br />of an ancient one <br />a great one <br />who wrote such immortal ink <br />that leaves him <br />sleepless <br />at night<br /><br />Wes Thompson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/if-nothing-else/
