Poetic Injustice

These words they seep through these lips,

Spill like wine onto a thousand trees,

Etched in stone by a thousand knives,

And still they draw me to my knees,

What being made language so sweet?

Tames my heart, yet murders my soul,

Vast melodies of poetical verse,

Causing me to lose control,

My hand, it aches a thousand throbs,

As I write these words I feel,

Lurking within my heart and my mind,

Causing me once again to kneel,

I have not done you justice, poems of mine,

Too many of you to remember you all,

And hark, as the sun it sets,

Another poetical work is soon to call.

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