What winter hands
placed its frosty fingers
on your heart
to sadden the morning
with mother nature's
whimper as the clouds
overtake your blue skies?
What scattered dimensions
exist where we don't break
the things that keep us
whole, instead of being
so fragile the slightest
breath could pluck
our leaves of fragmented emotion?
What place on what earth
would we dance under a shaded
tree, protecting
us from the rays that pierce
and burns us,
like some twisted kid's science
experiment involving a worker ant?
What eternal slumber do I crave
in which your image is plastered
all over these brainy clouds,
and with precipitation,
you rain over me?
No comments:
Post a Comment