I don't write poetry

[lenora_rose]

(... unless I'm attacked by a wild muse.)


The poems scribed are gifts not meant for me
Most likely I am well beyond the ken
Of artisans who shape with fear or glee
The image sly as fox or shy as wren

Though all seems lost, a pyrrhic war is won
In each creative work grown to a peak
As fairy-ships flee an exploded sun
As scribes in despair, doubt, and anger speak

But unobserved, still moved I come to be
However modest they have deemed their worth
And soon my gifts awake and speak to me
Demanding me to match their doubt and mirth

And pen the answer, broken though it's proved
I owe to those who fear their words unloved