The lost boys,
even of those in Sudan,
they are hungry–
they seek shelter,
they are looking for themselves.
Roses,
I twirl my finger around the delicate core of its petals,
it screams a sermon
it makes me aware of fire,
from that,
I can seize a photograph;
it details a painting
it shows me a picture–
this English rose can capture the alcohol of rum
it can love behind its seas,
yoddle out sirens,
it can sober a soul.
It can take back all of its runaways–
it can hide us from our weak hearts.
What keeps us sober can keep us free
and put together a wonderland,
just for us.
Our bodies create a wonderland,
our souls create oceans
because all the world's a stage,
and we are unsteady actors in the large act,
we're just dancing on rooftops,
we're creating every phase of life,
by just living.
We're just doing it now
and remembering it later.
We are numb and gone, gone, gone
we're stolen, unsteady secrets
only hidden
by our almighty Creator.
We're unsteady
but we're here.
We're unsteady,
but we conquered.
In the end,
we're all in the front row
of our own movie,
yet our favorite show–
capturing memories that made us bleed red
and cry none;
we're unsteady,
but we're human.
We're unsteady, but we're certain.
YOU ARE READING
Mellifluous Murmurs
Poetry❁ Freedom is allowing the crisp air to guide you through this forest we can call society. ❁