“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Familia(r)
He wrote the same book
no ones' words he took.
She sang the same song,
with the lyrics all wrong.
They were called the same thing-
in a new context.
The same color was never used
twice, naturally-
charmed by the third time,
we finally got it
-together-
before we forget
how it all fit...
Some-thing gives...
Some-one takes a chance
risking no-thing
new a-gain.
Painting by Albert Edelfelt, At the Door (1901) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Justice
It is only with calloused hands that the heavy body can claw and leverage the self upward on the thorny vine of a life without wince and whi...
-
Natures touch is both gentle and fierce. Homo sapiens trample on her back. The thick skin impossible to pierce. So...
-
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
-
Sun lifting the veil of purple sky- might bronze forge strength pungent as the turned dirt? Thirsting through exposition, hi...

No comments:
Post a Comment