Smiles a face most beautiful,
says she's a teen,
but like a woman I've never seen.
Wise beyond her tender years,
but torn within with faceless fears
unanchored and unrealized
as she gallops on ghost horses
upon cerebral ocean plains of pain.

What lies within stained mortal soul?

I know not.

But as certain as the sunset
she holds a gift
tied to stark emotion,
drifting from low to high
and hardly in between,
her peers irrelevant
still stand and cheer
their eyes so innocent,
as hers stare into their fallow faces
sensing blindness to life's hell
which comes to dwell
within us all.

So please, my dear,
face and embrace your fears.
Give tears to this
God-given gift which grants rare views
into sad searching souls.

Though open like a sore,
this talent is soon lost
as you become one with the masses,
still chasing destinations
missing life's mystic journey
over mountain highs and valley lows
to enjoy rather than
rush for the end.

Sad empty souls.
Sad empty lives.
Not heeding inner voices,
For Whom the Bell Tolls,
so many years gone by
when they too heard the cry
of their own screaming butterfly.

Stay the course of creativity.
Let no man or child
wash away such fertile soil
-to write

So write mighty soul
so the world may see
an imagination creating characters
and destinations
where we all shall want to be.

02/23/2008

Author's Note: For my new friend Laura.
Keep Writing my poetic friend!!!

Posted on 02/23/2008
Copyright © 2024 Tony Whitaker