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Voice (It is a pretty lengthy poem) - Poetry Group

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Moonlight on the whitest sand,
A bird nocturnal who never planned,
To fly to the ocean to see the sea,
A predator who, there, should not be,
This bird belongs upon a limb,
Then again the decision belongs to him,
His place in life is his own choice,
How sad it would be to have no voice.

I am but human, so how could I know,
The thoughts that had lead this bird to go,
So far from the place he was meant to be,
This knowledge of life is just not meant for me,
He glides above ivory crushed fine as dust,
It must be relieving to have wings you can trust,
I trek through this sand with my footsteps in lieu,
I am sure that the bird knows what he should do.

Moonlight on the weathered stone,
A single flower has grown alone,
From the gravel of a broken rock,
For a blooming flower, the oddest smock,
No garment of grass so near around,
Just a flower from the rugged ground,
It is odd to see her place of choice,
I'd ask her why if she had a voice.

I am but human, so how could I know,
The reason as to why she'd grow,
In a place where a flower would never be,
I suppose that this knowledge is not meant for me,
She is encompassed by these gray boulders ugly,
Her beauty is hidden ever so smugly,
I climb up this hillside with falling pebbles in lieu,
Perhaps the flower is one of a proud few.

Moonlight on a panicked wood,
A fire burns that never should,
Falling trees all turn to ash,
Creatures flee from an inferno, rash,
What gave birth to this devastation,
That roars and devours in manic frustration,
It spreads throughout with random choice,
It must be agonizing to have no voice.

I am but human, so how could I know,
Why a blaze such as this would feel the need to bestow,
A curse so dreadful as far as I see,
I am saddened this knowledge is not meant for me,
Its' hunger is endless, it continues to feed,
Will it ever be full, how much could it need?
I turn heel and run with red cinders in lieu,
And pray that the fire is sorry for what it must do.

Moonlight on a field of gold,
A man so young who will grow old,
Walks along a trodden path,
And ponders of time and all of its wrath,
And other such interests as fear, hate, and love,
Of the ground underneath and the heavens above,
He has fought at times, but desires peace when there is choice,
Instead of his fists he believes in his voice.

He is but human, so how could he know,
If his words were said quickly or if they were too slow,
If life were so simple then would it really be,
This is the knowledge that is not meant for he,
He marches through life with a heart and a pen,
And a soul that's as graceful as a wounded heron,
He steps up a stairway with his life in lieu,
He can decide where he's going, and that's what he'll do.




That a "good" Wow or and "Oh my god this is way too long" Wow


Oh no alan, that was like an "incredibly good WOW". When you do get published, do you think I could get a signed copy? It took my breathe away and left me speechless. Thanks for sharing!


I love this Alan! Bravo!!


Hey Alan this was hauntingly beautiful. As an animal lover I could really feel the birds pain. Fabulous!

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