I have nothing to write home about. Life has meandered into its oft chanced upon cheerless, uneventful bend.
Beautiful is the rose atop many a thorn;
mad indeed art thou to ignore it for mourn.
Effervescent is life despite moments of gloom;
shalt thou wilt or shalt thou bloom?
There’s a poet hidden amongst all of us. Unaware, yet waiting for the right moment.
Originally published: June 13, 2009