The storm that comes echoes your voice
But the silence that follows- that is mine.
Tender hearts, so delicate, can you
Conceive of a world where they beat as one?
Can you will it?
My love, from tender hearts grows
Young buds- flowers will flourish
When you speak in clean, crisp air.
If you are the eaglet, I am but
A mere minnow, swallow me up
Have no fear or lust, just
Let nature run its course.
From ancient times is love fortified
For the menial struggle of hate and lust,
If you are the dawn then I am a sunset
When I fall, in you I trust.
YOU ARE READING
Petrichor
PoetryWe grow old eventually {here are the waking thoughts that consume me}
