The pen awaits, a canvas bare and bright,
To paint the worlds that bloom within the soul.
For poems come in every shade of light,
And stories whispered, take their sweet toll.

From depths of sorrow, words like teardrops fall,
A lament echoing through the lonely night.
The mournful muse responds to grief’s dark call,
And weaves a tapestry of fading light.

But poems also climb to sunlit peaks,
Where laughter rings and joy takes flight.
Of love and hope, the happy rhythm speaks,
A beacon burning, banishing the night.

So let His Spirit be the guiding hand,
Let sorrow sigh and happiness ascend.
For in this art, on shifting, silver sand,
The soul finds voice, and poems without end.

© c.f. leach, 2025. Copyright protected. All rights reserved

This poem is dedicated to poets everywhere. “Never stop putting pen to paper. Your poems are slivers of hope to the unseen thoughts in the hearts and minds of men.” — c.f. leach

Thank you for your continued readership and support. Until next week…Blessings and Peace!

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