It's been a while since I talked
with someone who wanted to listen,
told them of all the useless
things I could think of to fill
the time,
those days have long since dogeared
there are vignettes on the edges
of the frame, rust, rat bites,
the colours aren't vivid anymore,
except the smiles,
those will last a while, I think,
before they too are rubbed
off by neglect.

It's been quite long since pains eclipsed my joys
and let the mournings cloak my days and nights,
my dreams became nightmares of girls and boys
whose sinless childhood fed the endless plights.

Now trees are shedding tears-no leaves to shed,
no birds to sing, or whispering wind to hear
and sadness lives and veils the wild instead
as rainbows fade where clouds there hide in fear.

Through timelines immemorial
mankind has written poems,
with wordsmith nigh celestial
he filled nigh endless tomes.

Who wrote the first to poesy shape?
When did he recognize
the panacea’s posed escape
from all he did despise?

His epode came before his prose.
He beat the drums aloud.
Heartfelt the elegist knew throes
of joy and pain enshroud.

‘Longside the painter in the cave
the poet sang his song.
He sang of gods and heroes brave
and what he thought was wrong.

Advisor (poem pre book write, - second main Edit)

I had taken out a lot of the capital letters that started each line, now this one is where I have started to edit to the comments received

I sat at my lonely station,
the library a quiet meditation.
Oh how I yearned to shout,
telling the world what life was about
.
Day on day just passed away
my mind drifted it wouldn’t stay
to this silence I wasn't a slave
out it would go wave on wave