At a Crossroads a Poet Is Born
I hold my papers and pen
not a poetry to write
it is the school year again
one other journey in time.
My ever burning concern
would my words find their way
as all my candles I burn
to meet yearning faces each day.
A thirst for light in young hearts
I lend my soul, the blanks I fill
and then a whole story starts
quenching feels would be a thrill.
When my pupils take my notes
would they read devotion in many a line
my fear, a quote or a word floats
my quill unveiled in heart shrine.
I hold my pen with great zeal
two paths I walk, a heart is torn
my love how can I conceal
at a crossroads, a poet is born.
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