How could you think
that I only write in sad verses,
my dear one?
Maybe you are right but
I am a lake which is born sad.
Engulfed by land I can only ripple
when children skate rocks
through me. There are so many ways to feel forlorn in my presence
but I could also gleam,
and I could
offer peace that would give you
melancholy.
Isn't I an irony?
Maybe you are right,
I ripple with my lament but can you blame my stagnant body?
In each way my cold water
freezes, I could give you
hypothermia, but in the summer
there are so many daddy long legs
on my surface,
and I can tell you I always made
their predators happy.
YOU ARE READING
Live
PoetryOur hearts are brave as fire, minds gentle as earth, dreams are fluid as water, and our souls are as free as the wind. (Poetry and Prose) #2 of the end-live-begin trilogy.
