The Still Voice of A Poet

The quiet little poet
Sits in a corner all alone
Pen and paper, worth more than gold
The folding chair is her throne.

Poetry whispers very softly
It takes the ear of one who cares,
To hear the tiny voice
And see the thoughts it bears

The voice of a poet
Is still, that is true
But it can still effect you
Just see what it may do!

The world was small,
the woods were deep,
the stag with a cross
did run and leap
his antlers twining, like the trees
their branches winding
in the breeze
The cave was dark,
the stars were bright
stories written in them
poems and songs they used to sing
before the wind did take them
The seas were great,
the fires blazing
the warriors ran,
their torches raising
with spears and bows, and swords to pierce
silver dripping, shining
eyes so fierce