The dverse prompt this evening is to write about the art of poetry. I think this poem is a draught, to be worked at and refined. I don’t often do that, but maybe the subject warrants it.
There are some words that never can be said,
And some songs that never should be sung,
While the sun is sinking in the sky.
There are some places we should never go,
Some dark and silent corners of the past
That should lie untouched beneath their withered shrouds.
The words that hurt or open half-healed wounds,
The songs brought in poor baggage wrapped in sighs,
The tears that glisten in an old one’s eye,
This beauty, terrible and fierce, that I
Would paint with cries of cub and kit,
In falcon feathers across the wintry sky,
Is all, of life of love,
And the quiet of solace of death.