About me are tensions,
whispers, and critics
I count the heartbeats, rhythms, and stares
Then words start their rumbles and roars
And voices much louder than ever before
The blast of shattering glass
The drums beating once more
What war do we dare enter
What war are we made for
The hours and minutes drop like pebbling stone
But there is this softness
A quaint and honest tone
Speaking of journeys and dreams quite like my own
Its deep pleasant rumbles
It's Eden amidst
The drums once executioner
Now playing duet
Might I a picture or trinket of him
To take about so angels descend
Might I bask in blushes or autumny prose
So I may find such forgotten rose
I dread not to hope
For dread and hope alike admit
In only the cruelest of fans
But might he allow me such joy as to simply worship
Perhaps some sureness of acknowledgment
Yet I fear in ego I will drown
For if I am spurned then spurned I am so
Yet if I am allowed
Will I return unscathed
To instead worship scars instead of his face
But his league is of his own and not mine
He stopped the drums to descend
And that my feelings I cannot defend
For I am alone
And he--
YOU ARE READING
March of the Flowers
PoetryOne by one, we march. We march. Our branches tired. Our leaves are wearied. March of the Flowers is a collection of poetry
