Poetry

Philosophy

"you can discover more about a person in a hour of play than in a year of conversation." ~ Plato

Plato once said he knew me.

From the lesson we once shared, my favourite colour.

From the lunch we ate together, my last name.

If I was the ink, he was the words.

The mind. The passion.

He'd say, "we are both one in the same."

Plato said he knew my story.

My chestnut hair a seed of knowledge he tucked away for safe keeping.

My sunbeam back pack a spark of life in his knowing eyes.

"Believe me," he said.

"I'm not like the other guys."

*

Plato said he was tired.

In my voice he heard the battering wind, but he did not hear the beauty of the rain.

In my eyes he saw a song bird in flight, but he did not see the reflection of the hawk.

"Listen babe," he whispered.

"We need to talk."

*

Plato said he wanted to leave.

Plato said that true Love is tough.

"We are one in the same," he said.

But for him that was never enough.

Plato does not know me.

Every blooming rose he enchanted was a thorn in my side.

Every sunset he summoned scorched the soles of my feet.

Yet for him I kept walking, through blood

speckled leaves and raging fire because

Plato said he knew me.

Plato was a liar.