Perhaps we're nothing but artful collage,
a symphony one can't sing ,
shrouded in camouflage ,
of weakened bone and ageing's moan,
stretched sinew sewn anew,
and wrinkled skin, so akin
to worthless weeds in this wretched world.
We are dandelions that spring up all over,
Worthless, yet exquisite.
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We're dandelions.
YOU ARE READING
Wordalmania
Poetry#14 on 8 March 2017 Poetry, Prose. Words bled from the very soul. Musings of an occasional poetess. 'Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words. It is an abstract art, and I am, but a mere artist ' - Edgar Allan Poe ©wordalmaniac 2016
