Poetry

Lines on a paper standing,
For the tip of a pencil to grace them
The sharp strokes branding,
The gates of glory await them.

Names etched into histories long books,
For a reader to enjoy them in a small nook.
A thousand names may pass by,
Every one of them attempting to fly.

Bodies long gone and forgotten,
buried under fields of cotton.
As the flowers of tomorrow grow,
Under the suns heavenly glow.

Now with the lines dancing,
Upon the page they are prancing.
With poetry shining, so delightful
Below tomorrows setting sun.