Poets Quest
By Loycie Casey


Always beyond my reach, yet I know it.

Hypnotic in a sense I almost taste.

Restless spirit, seeking soul expression.

Ten Fingers outstretched reaching for the key.

If I'm not meant, why can I almost see?

In the quiet, a haunting promise calling,

Whispers to my strained and aching ears.

Dangling golden words unvoiced, evasive,

A soaring living song, loud and so near.

If I'm not meant, why can I almost hear?

Just beyond this gated wall, I own it.

The beauty all my life has felt and heard.

Never rest, keep stretching, climbing, crying.

Keep laughing, loving, searching for the key.

If that's not meant, how can a poet be?






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