“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Monday, August 15, 2016
Always greener
I have been watering the grass,
I have brushed my teeth-wait-yes,
with the water on too long
I have washed my car-
worse I have had it washed.
I have cut the two best roses
for myself by the coffeepot
to smell in the morning.
I have said too much,
I have said nothing at all.
I have flooded the attic-
and the walls may cave
in on me-
but that would be selfishly
about me.
I have sunk to new levels,
as water will often dew.
Image By Leon Brooks [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Lip sticks and stones
The way my name sits in your mouth, at least, you want it to. The 'a' hanging an ellipses on the sound waves. The rattling of conso...
-
A year ago this May, in fact, upon this same very grey day- something came over me I found could say, in no other way but to portray, ...
-
Natures touch is both gentle and fierce. Homo sapiens trample on her back. The thick skin impossible to pierce. So...
-
Failure is all the rage these days. I have been practicing, and I understand the rage. Someone said that melancholy is tragedy handled well....

No comments:
Post a Comment