My words are children—born complete—
Or wanting—limbs—or Hearts—
Unyielding—though the form may lack—
Their Life—by Art—imparted—
A Soul’s embrace—a Painter’s hand—
Or Poem’s—whispered Breath—
Each speaks—unto the Giver—
Dances in the Shadow’s path—
They Echo—through the empty Hall—
In every silent Room—
Each syllable—a living pulse—
A Language to the Tomb—
:: Rev – 08.21.2024 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 