Few withered sounds pour gently on my nerves,
And though I feel, I cannot speak their verse.
My quill is stuck, my hands become so numb
And all I ever took for granted, now it’s gone
The purity and bareness of my soul
Reveal themselves- the rhythms flow;
And in the mixture of their pace
I find a better ME, that I embrace
I will not choose one road, it’s dull
In Beauty’s name, I’ll take them all!
As freedom lies within our choice
So Beauty speaks using our voice.
For what it’s worth, my Poem has no strains
It’s only driven by the feelings It contains…