Who knows the true meaning of serenity?
Who knows the liquidious repose?
The place where a lull is a century
As above the waves open and close.

Yea, even a king is a mute,
For the element is not his own.
Neither his pages, his lyre, or lute
Can produce even a whispering tone.

The state is luxuriously quiet
The hubbub's been left far behind
For there is luxury even in reticence
And among rarities known to Mankind.

by J.P. LadyHawk Freeman

Other poems of J.P. LADYHAWK FREEMAN (2)

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