Book & Rebel Writers

Here's a poem from my collection of writings. "He Pens" In shadows deep where echoes sleep, A tortured poet roams, He sings of her, the muse that stirred, Through whispered words and tomes.

Gray-green eyes like seas untamed, Dark blond hair, a flowing tide, She graced his world, and breath was stilled, Each glance, his heart’s wild ride.

With every note of "Landslide" played, His memories would ignite, Her laughter bright, her fleeting grace, A beacon in the night.

The mountain of his heart, it crumbled, Under the weight of her goodbye, She vanished like a fleeting breeze, No word, no trace, no sigh.

The days, months and now a year have passed, and still he dreams, Of the day she turned away, A younger love, a fleeting touch, In his heart, she’ll always stay.

He pens his pain in lines and verse, A melody of sorrow, For the poet lost in twilight’s grip, Awaits a dim tomorrow.

Yet in the silence, he still hears, Her voice, a haunting song, A ghost that lingers in his soul, Where his tortured heart belongs.

Gray-green eyes and golden hair, Forever in his mind, A muse that broke the poet’s heart, And left his dreams confined.