My poem’s rhythm

Deeply and ponder to the illness of my heart.

The sadness and tears from my eyes apart

and why couldn’t make a poem’s rhythm from the dark.

The light of the tyrant, and vivid to my eyes.

The daffodils from terrain shouting for a write.

Days are numbered but the poem’s rhythm is bright.

Mystery calling, my pen is talking.

My heart is thinking and thought, bringing.

Erasing the history, the years are still remain and staying.

The decade is done that the man have waited.

The mime enchanting, laughing, sitting down as the write sublime.

-Wilfredo Bolbes