Oh to be a flower
And not know when petals wither Falling to the ground When plucked by Cupid’s count. Or water flowing Never caring for direction, simply taking shape To evaporate and transform into a warm breeze. Or the brush of an artist To bend and crinkle Dips and dancing on the canvas Leaving marks to smear and smudge. Or a sound that fills the air And does not care Where echos bounce and jingle Until on ear it lands and turns to melody.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorHere I will collect poetry and other thoughts. Archives
March 2022
Categories |