“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)
Tres (trace)
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
This world is not for breath for feelings also come and go. As hard and light as Push and pull Go. Busy hands and bees-electricity, alter...
-
Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. In California...
No comments:
Post a Comment