I completed my first poem in 2 years last night. Id love any objective feedback anyone has for me.
With arms outstreched, still too far to hold.
The moon's light touching my weary hand;
as ice melting through clenched fingers.
My soul is a fire and its warmth betrays me.
But fire is light
bathe in the light;
and glow from its warmth.
Don't curse the moon because the sun has set.
Reach for its cold light
and give it your heat
For when it has melted away,
leaving your hands cold and dry,
the sun will rise,
and you will bathe in its warmth.
By: Jeffrey Phillips Freeman