From the quiet depths of my repose,
I rise, a specter of verse and woe,
To lend my voice to this poetic fray,
In my voice and guise, I’ll have my say.
As Emily.
Upon the stair’s highest brink I’ll stand,
Gazing upon a garden’s urn in hand.
Let sunlight thread through each solitary hair,
In quiet contemplation, I’ll ponder there.
To wish a swift departure, ah, how vain!
Or for her heart to linger, steeped in pain.
Yet such is life’s ephemeral dance,
Each soul must part from its mortal trance.
In search of paths both light and fleet,
Where heart and mind in union meet,
A quest as fragile as a smile’s brief grace,
Or a gentle touch, a warm embrace.
As autumn’s breath whispers its refrain,
In my mind’s eye, I’ll call forth the pain.
My arms laden with blossoms fair,
A vision lost to the autumn air.
Oh, the musings that linger and roam,
In midnight’s silence, in noon’s bright dome.
Emily Dickinson, through endless throes,
In verse, in spirit, I’ll forever compose.
:: 03.17.2024 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 