Labors of love like a warm breeze caress,
Softening edges worn rough by duress,
Seeking to bleed by releasing the soul,
Preventing it from suffocating in tortured black hole.
Quill as my sword toward battle I go,
What awaits up ahead I do not yet know,
But brilliant or poor unique it must be,
When a mind is consoled and it’s spirit set free.
Words as a weapon through ink that is laid,
Or passion unleashed in love that’s forbade,
Perhaps shrouded in mystery with nary a clue,
Or cringing in darkness in terror we’re drew.
Poet’s imagine with the most subtle prose,
No subject off limits, as anything goes,
Photo or painting both classics of art,
One modern, one ancient, endeared by the heart.
What poison is picked to us matters not,
May last an eternity and ne’er be forgot,
That future generations might enjoy what we loved,
Knowing we’re remembered as we look down from above.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~