my eyes flutter.
the clock ticks,
the wind whispers,
the birds sing.
but through this sweet melody
the only audible noise
in my idealistic head
is your voice.
the singing of a kettle,
the ring of a toaster.
yet your scent is
the only thing
still burning my nose.
the pastel pinks in the sky,
the silhouette of the moon;
still the only beauty I see is
your eyes.
I hear words of the artistry
surrounding me.
yet still, after all this time,
the thought of you
still drowns out
the rest of the world.
the world that's trying to pull me
out from under your spell.
c.d.
YOU ARE READING
1:46 a.m.
PoesiaA collection of poems, most written at extremely late, or should I say extremely early, times of the day, when my mind can truly bleed its thoughts onto paper.
