The flowers outside are withering
The dust on my windowsill settles.
A glance - life is continuing,
There is little time for all the small things.
The bees are disappearing,
The green is turning brown.
The trees are nothing
But little stumps, cut down.
We are running out of clear blue,
Foggy depths are all that's left.
Maybe this doesn't affect me and you,
But people all over the world are bereft
Of small things that we have little time for.
It's been a while, since we've seen
The crystal clear sheen,
And lustrous balls of glazing fires
Across the wide expanse of our skies.
It's all whirlpools of dust and grime,
A vengeance from the incensed skies.
A vortex of broken dreams -
But we have little time
To worry about these small things.
We are busy, hastily chasing,
A distorted unattainable vision.
YOU ARE READING
Small Things
Poetry- Mostly metaphor-free, this is a collection featuring poetry that possibly many can relate to. - Exploration of human nature, feelings, emotions and the lot.
