I wish to run in a field of flowers.
Flowers with little pictures.
Little pictures of me,
Little pictures of her,
Little pictures of you.
I won't like some of those flowers,
But isn't that the point?
Why should every flower not disappoint?
Some of those flowers
Won't have pictures at all.
And most will hang as loose as a towel.
It'll be nothing but a dark,
Empty, awaiting canvas.
YOU ARE READING
As Time Slows Around Us [Poetry]
PoetryAs complicated as time itself, like the silent conversations with the moon and sun, lie the complexity of the screaming but silent thoughts of the stars. "All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." ...
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