Silent Pages
Another passing moment
writes a line in the firmament
And the passing days
Write their own verse of phrases
Another passing year
Writes another stanza,
Of an episode
Whether an elegy or an ode
Every passing generation
a new chapter adds to the collection
Every passing age,
filling another volume of pages
Every thought and deed
known or hid,
that lived and living lives articulate,
hath but no exact duplicate;
a draft manuscript,
a record accurate and fair
without corrections, to keep
in a great library somewhere
A labor in quiet, silent and solemn
the never ending book of poems
being written without hands
and the imprints thereof burned
forever into memories
and left as evidence or legacies
For posterity?
Or to present one day?
The silent words may not always rhyme
Nor make sense
But then musical chimes
of a million spheres
make as much sense…
singin’ in the universe
…but then only to the author
or the composer
alone, perhaps?
poem by Lyre Bleus
Added by Poetry Lover
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