He is like a cloudy day, not much sun but, also, no sign of rain. In the empty park, the soft autumn wind makes the dry leaves of a large orange trees fly around that place, where the ground is covered with other dry leaves and small petals of pale, neutral flowers. The scent of these flowers makes even the bitterest person smile again. Pigeons fly over the park in the company of bees, just looking for someone who can be kind enough to give them bread crumbs.
He is like the view of a rustic bedroom window in France, where you can see a beautiful street formed by perfectly aligned boulders. Some ash wood round tables, on them, there are vases with the most delicate tulips. These flowers smell good, as good as the French coffees and sweets that are also there, calling those who are hungry for peace and some rest with its passionately sweet scent.
Or like listen music while remembering childhood moments; the tears slowly appearing in your eyes.
Or like watching the sunset on the beach with your feet in the sand; the stars slowly appearing in the sky.
Or like the smell of new books and newly written letters; the words slowly appearing in the paper.
Or like simple and colorful drawings that gets lost in a field; the paintings slowly appearing in the bush.
He is hard to explain because he is the most complex poem.
YOU ARE READING
Some Prose & Poetry
PoetryP R O S E /prōz/ noun 1. written or spoken language in its ordinary form, without metrical structure. P O E T R Y /ˈpōətrē/ noun 1. literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive s...
