The Poet

[Bob Pacey]

The Poet

This is where the story ends
a poem that twists and winds and bends.
How can things be or is it not fair
that autumn is a fine affair.

A load of soil without a home
no chance of ever being loam.
Upon the bloody battlefield
left to rot for none would yield.

And though they thought the end was nigh
I knew that here no one would sigh.
The poet wrote while flame was writ
and when it ended that was it.


Bob Pacey (c)

[Neville Briggs]

The only way to find the right decision
is to find out which is the wrong decision,
to examine that other path without fear,
and only then decide.


Paulo Coelho

[Bob Pacey]

A beautiful poem and only one comment


WOW

[Bob Pacey]

A poem within a poem

The Poet

This is where the story ends This
a poem that twists and winds and bends. Poem
How can things be or is it not fair is
that autumn is a fine affair. a

A load of soil without a home load
no chance of ever being loam. of
Upon the bloody battlefield bloody
left to rot for none would yield. rot

And though they thought the end was nigh and
I knew that here no one would sigh. I
The poet wrote while flame was writ wrote
and when it ended that was it. it.


Tried to do the flaming colour thingy but it keeps moving the words
Bob Pacey (c)

[alongtimegone]

Well, Art is Art, isn't it? Still, on the other hand, water is water. And east is east and west is west and if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste much more like prunes than rhubarb does. Now you tell me what you know.

Groucho Marx