Blood on the Page

Poetry is bled from the writers heart. A gift of their souls blood for others to feel, and use as needed.

Blood on the Page

 

All the ages have cried

Bade the bard and the scribes

How the world doth love her a poet

But unknown are their souls

From Sexton to Thoreau

Even purveyors of prose don't know it

 

How could we know

The heart of a Poe

Nevermore our understanding's less able

Weep the poets haunted mind

Their ghosts are not kind

Like specters these spirits are unstable

  

From whence it is found

What bridled breeding ground

Is this anthem of answers always seeking

More often then not

It's the wounds of the heart

That are sliced from a loves helpless bleeding

 

So with blood on the page

Dripped from scars of the sage

Flow bemusement and alternate sadness

Beloved poet cried the ages

Grant asylum from our rages

Brief respite with you wisdom and your madness

Author's Note

This is simply an attempt to explain, as much to myself as to others, where the words come from.