Recrudescence

No tears were wept, no dirge was sung
The night the poem died;
And hither though the folks did come,
No prayer was told or cried.

 

No murmur's breath, no whisper's touch
Caressed the solemn night,
And in the place of sound there stood
A pyre with dying light.

 

But oft from naught, as some might see,
A pulse began to rise -
A smile of warmth, a touch of grace
From heaven's twinkling eyes.

 

Elixir from the angel's eyes,
A drop fell on the fire;
I swear to ye a poet's truth,
A poet's not a liar -

 

The flame had calmed; the silence warmed -
A rumbling from the pyre!
A trickle first, a thumping heart
Whose pulse was growing higher.

 

The angel with the diamond eyes
Then pulled the poem free;
And with a smile, a million miles
She said she'll come with me.

 

And now she smiles at me with such
Eternal calm and peace -
The poem's dead no more! No more!
By heaven's just decrees.

 

The spaces in our hands are filled
By silence in our speech;
Wherever she might take me hence,
There's nowhere I can't reach.

Reviews

[faryn wolff]

Oh! I missed your words. I'm so glad I decided to come back and take a peek at your newer poetry. This is enchanting. The meter particularly keeps me captivated.

[Dinesh Sairam]

The spaces in our hands are filled
By silence in our speech;
Wherever she might take me hence,
There's nowhere I can't reach.

This last stanza is alone to stay over any cliche the poem has to throw (And you have to admit, there are some). Of course, I'm also glad that the "poem" is alive and breathing.

Keep writing.