A Thought
by Anneliese M. Kvamme
| No
passion moves my pen across this page, No demons haunt my soul to terror stark, No need to calm an all-consuming rage, Or chisel into hist'ry's stone my mark. What person yet insists a poet's art Must always stem from blood as hot as fire, Dispelling humors hidden in his heart, To quench with liquid language passion's pyre? These things have often moved me to my pen, But anguish does not drive this poem today. A tiny thought, intensely felt within Has pow'r enough to force my hand this way. For echoes in my heart repeat again, I thank the Lord He gave me you, my friend. |