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Inexplicable Joy

A joy that’s inexplicable,
That gladly overwhelms.
Like eating a glorious meal,
Within a peaceful realm.

It’s accepting the truthful fact,
That tomorrow’s unknown.
By trusting God who never lacks,
You relax on your throne.

You see someone who clearly rose,
From the wrong side of bed.
Instead of becoming a foe,
You share a smile instead.

Joy when you see a newborn smile,
It’s magic and glory.
Joy when you see your Grandma dial,
To share her life stories.

You choose to turn the other cheek,
When someone insults you.
Instead you pray for them to seek,
A joy you know is true.

Like Jesus at the Last Supper,
He knew His time was near.
Despite this His joy was proper,
He gave thanks, ate with cheer.

Though we do have our ups and downs,
I challenge you today.
Choose to have joy, put on your crowns,
You’re vital like sun rays.

By Elicia Fyle

Ancient Streets

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A fictional love poem. I hope you enjoy reading.

Ancient streets, modern beats.

His dance was timid, two left feet.

His silent confidence shone through,

My interest in him grew.

Naturally, I could see,

Him filled with glee, his moves carefree.

I reminisced on how we met,

Strangest encounter yet.

It was three years ago or so,

The morning dragged, and I was slow.

I realised I overslept,

Out of my bed I leapt.

The time was eight and I was late.

I grabbed my coat, ran out the gate.

I rushed along the ancient street,

And fell over my feet.

Luckily, I was free,

From any major injury.

My hands were bruised, my spirit down,

I hear a gentle sound.

A voice so deep, yet calm and sweet.

He stood tall on the ancient street.

He offered help for me to stand,

He kindly gave a hand.

From that point on, we’d often talk,

On my commute, we’d often walk.

I didn’t realise it then,

That we’d be more than friends.

Back to the street party story,

The dancing ends, he sits by me.

We gaze into each other’s eyes.

My stomach, butterflies.

From that point on, everything changed,

Our lives completely rearranged.

We faced a new reality,

The rest is history.

By Elicia Fyle

© Elicia Fyle 2021