The voice of my pen
Is a
tad bit soft
Sometimes
unspoken
Not
heard enough
It
lives amongst the pages
Of
words still unseen
From
wandering eyes of persons
It
choose to let in...
To
this chamber
Accompanied
by my mind
Scared
to reveal that last shred humanity
They
would come to find
The
voice of my pen
Is of
warmth and of cold
Of
times before time
Of the
brave and the bold
Of
kisses upon lips
We
long to hold
Of a portraits
definition
The
crafty hands upon a sculptor's mold
So
until that voice
Is no
longer detained
By
fear and inhibitions
Amongst
these pages it will forever remain.
Olsfred James 2015©
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