I spot a faded, dingy coverlet, In a dusty corner of my attic.
It's worn and torn,
It's slightly soiled.
It's slightly coiled.
But yet I'm drawn to it,
For some reason I can't explain to myself.
Yet I move forward to touch it, inspite of myself.
I'm hesitant, I don't know why.
As I stare at its dull golden-black pattern, so wry.
It makes me sad,
This old coverlet, which is now a rag.
I look more closely,
And notice the intricate embroidery.
Ravaged, but splendid.
Savage, but candid.
YOU ARE READING
Muses
PoetryHere's a compilation of poems for you to enjoy. You'll find a mèlange of emotions here. Some sweet, some bitter. But at the end, you'll find yourself lost in the music of words, the rhythm of stanzas and the enchanting world of poetry.
