A. Pope

YOU got your past world
a language of your own
to copy of which i have not
the slightest intention
They all call you a great man
that is something
i must be dumb that
i cannot understand

I have a language of my own
a voice that constantly
sings my own song
at night i keep it toned down
in my heart
there is no frown.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!