The Poem

Made purely on spur and yet risen from deep,
Behind some tight door from which nothing can seep,
The heartfelt, the soul felt, the emotions within,
They conjure up romances, array from all sin.

And yet they are burdened with passion and lust,
For ‘’tis a passionate place from whence they are thrust,
And when they appear they are fully formed,
Like gardens of wonder, so greatly adorned.

They seem such a stronghold, so tough at first glance,
And yet they’re nimble and will snap like a lance,
They’re nothing of texture, and none to the touch,
But loved and respected oh, so very much!

A thought, just a whisper, that lives in my head,
So frail, but namely, ‘’tis never claimed dead,
It leaves as it comes: with little provoke,
Like the flame of a fire can hide with one stoke.

They may well return but long after they’re gone,
Only ever the same in the place they come from,
So when they do happen to come drifting my way,
It is all I can do to keep it that way.

Like holding water in clasped and cupped hands,
Except you’re holding some marvelous lands,
Of journey, adventure and trivial fun,
A place that has only a spot for the sun.

Many tales have drifted, on this insolent breeze,
I’ve noticed them to be nothing more than a tease,
Fair few are real, like rings shining gold,
But the best are almost always the old.

I end as I start, without title or name,
This is the last verse - I shan’t write again,
I tell you in true words, I’ll swear by my knife,
That when you find a tale you should keep it for life.