Ripples
A poem is a ripple From a wave called grief Never perfect with its order But almost constant with its beat One after another I see them surge into the shore Some can be seen clearly But others vanish just before If they only slightly touch I hear a whisper of a rhyme I don’t even try to write them Because they'll build if given time The strong ones crash against me With a force that makes me write Once down they then recede And give me peace for just one night No matter what I try The waves they... Sign in to see full entry.