A Poem Lost to Time
They say it lived on parchment frail,
A whispered breath, a silver trail,
Penned beneath a dying flame—
No title left, no poet’s name.
Its rhyme was strung with morning dew,
Its meter matched the blackbird’s coo,
Each word a thread in silence sewn,
A truth once known, now overgrown.
The winds have read it, leaf by leaf,
The sea has wept it out in grief,
Mountains hummed its final line—
A cadence now erased by time.
No scholar’s hand, no binding clasp,
Could save its verses from the grasp
Of years that fold and fade and fall—
Yet echoes drift, though none recall.
And maybe in some starlit dream,
It flickers faint, a phantom gleam—
A poem lost, but not undone—
Its soul still burns where it begun.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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