poem (Remove filter)
Fingerprints
To know my fingerprints
on another’s heart
could stir them into art
a priceless gift, a magic
To know there is a poem
written about me
those words, more beautiful
than I could ever hope to be
From the caverns of passed time
there comes a sound
a constant, quiet, ring
when I choose to listen
always there
telling of another way of living
That the heart of an artist
a complexly c...
Monday 16th September 2019 11:51 am
Recent Comments
John Marks on The nutritional value of a bullet
3 hours ago
Tom Doolan on HELLO DARKNESS MY OLD FRIEND
3 hours ago
Graham Sherwood on HELLO DARKNESS MY OLD FRIEND
4 hours ago
Graham Sherwood on The nutritional value of a bullet
7 hours ago
Pinnochio on Am I Enough?
10 hours ago
Red Brick Keshner on The nutritional value of a bullet
14 hours ago
Tom Doolan on Social Media Man
16 hours ago
Red Brick Keshner on upon a shot that lit the roof alight; June 29, 1613
23 hours ago
Robert Mann on November Heart (Updated)
1 day ago
Rolph David on Máxima's Royal Mock
1 day ago