Poets have labored long,
thru starless and starry nights,
to dispel the torment of uncertainty
leaping from neuron’s arguments
breaching near madness,
overcoming sense and sensibilities.
The pen is the conqueror.
Words flow onto blank page in black,
filling the synapses, and binding thought
to triumph the struggle of the day.
The sound of harps or growling of wolves
(one or the other) inhabit the minutes or hours.
Is the sound of harps better to save for posterity?
For quite respectable it is to reveal positivity.
Revealing rabid canines?
Well, that’s quite another matter.
The reader might find violence too appalling.
But is it the reader the poet writes for?
Perhaps not.
Perhaps the paper will be crumpled and tossed.
The stars don’t care whether a poem is read or not.
© Phyllis Weeks Rogers 12/5/2018
Life On The Lake 
Thank you for sharing this Phyllis, regardless of who it is written for, your words speak the longings of our hearts. Grace and blessings.
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Somehow while reading your kind comment, the salutation Sir came to mind before you name when thinking of my reply. So, Sir Bruce, thank you so much. You have been so supportive for a very long time and I’m very grateful. God Bless.
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Your poem is true for writers too! You should have this published. It is excellent.
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A compliment of such high esteem is greatly appreciated Claudia. Thank you so much.
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