There is
A warm little world
Contained in a gentle existence
Of
Tired evening skies
And quiet winters
Where I
Might sit,
On the couch,
At the table,
Or
Come in through the door
Out of whatever
Meaning
I am carving
Into
The stone
Of that
Existence.
And we might exchange sweet
And pleasant words,
Or kind glances,
And I might
Cherish
A stolen glance
When you
Move
Barefoot
Through our shared
World,
From one private
Moment
To the
Next.
But that would be all
That I could
Muster.
I am not the words on my pages,
And as much as I want
To be the voice
That says them,
I fear
That I am
Nothing but
A troglodyte,
Hiding away
In a cavern
Made of my own
Aspirations,
Pulling down
The flowers
That grow above,
And around,
And throughout,
Gathering them
Up
And trying
To give them
To the world
As something
I
Might
Have
Grown
Myself.
I can notice
And say
And regurgitate
Beauty,
Much the same
As a mirror
Could
Do
For a face,
But I am
Not it's maker,
Nor its master.
Just
The observer.
YOU ARE READING
The Flowers, They are so Damned Beautiful
Poetrythe heavy rains come, but they will leave one day soon. and in the soil flowers bloom.
