The doorway is open,
expressed by the light.
Yet open is broken
and the expression is a plight.
Settling gently down,
calling from afar,
beauty meets the town
who strums its own guitar.
Lights adorn the meadows;
Rain sifts through the trees;
Marksmen discard their arrows
and sit beside the bees.
But, still, none quite can listen.
And, still, no one can see
the message that does glisten
in your eyes of memory.
If by chance they notice
or take it in at last,
nay shall they thank their hostess
who cries tears of the past.
YOU ARE READING
Where All Dawn Breaks - A Poetry Book
PoetryThis is a collection of poetry, both mine and not. If it was written by somebody else, credit will be given as possible.
