poetry is inherently a pompous art form. we sculpt shapes from stones with language,
scrape and claw meaning from nature's marrow, desperate.
for what?
perhaps saccharine tongues from which flowers sprout
and trellised double-meanings clinging to each word
like poison ivy
are just that.
roses on a cloudy afternoon,
latched onto a rickety wooden
trellis.
when i die, and if historians are unfortunate enough
to come across my work,
i bet that they'd make that image into something bigger than it is.
like human frailty.
morality.
their God.
can a flower not simply be a flower?
YOU ARE READING
the archives - a poetry portfolio
PoetryA light buzzing distracts you from whatever you're doing. There is an old, weathered monitor on a table next to you. You could have sworn that it had just *appeared* out of thin air. Out of curiosity, you stare at it for a moment. The screen flicke...
