The Death of a Poet






The Death of a Poet







Some days I wake up empty,
Something has left me.
 
A discarded shell
On a desolate beach.
With no more purpose.
Nothing to learn,
And nothing to teach.

Pick me up,
Put me to your ear.
No sea,
Or ocean
Will you hear.

Where is my mind,
When it is not there?
Is emptiness
A cruel consequence

Of contentment?


Or is it,
The death of a poet?








Gerry Aldridge







Gerry Aldridge is from Newbury, Berkshire, England and lives in the foothills of a national park in Portugal, where he divides his days between doing sculpture, writing poetry and pet sitting. He is inspired by life and the human psyche, which he explores through his poetry and artwork combined

Comments

Gerry Aldridge said…
Comments like that fill a person¨s heart after they have worked hard to deliver something that took time and energy and the whole objective is to share, give something to the reader. I am new here, and greatly appreciate the fact you have taken the time to read my work, Thankyou Mr Walt Page.
Gerry Aldridge

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