Find simple things in the heart of roses
and taste the salt in your tears
Feel the blood coursing through your bones
the rattle of each breath
Each memory a quiet work of art
None quite the same, treasure them all
Your beating heart, a sculpture in clay
A mould, a case, for simple things
You are a sculpture, but not stone- feel-
Feel until the stone weeps tears of red.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts Of An Insomniac
PoetryWhen I can't sleep My mind lives in a twilight Between beautiful thoughts and insomnia Where is it my thoughts go when the lights are out? a collection of words with extra spaces some may call poetry
