Seyl - A Collection of Poetry

Wrists.

Fine things on soft objects.
Liquid trickles down a pane.
An artist sketches on his canvas,
Which he didn't need to buy.
Stopped in a busy city street.
Violas on a deep grey sky.
Black shields toward the moon,
Flowers on his chest.
Feelings on their cheeks.
If only they had known.
Hidden in his own mind,
And a star
Shines
Dim.

-Seyl