When you win a heart, you win
a faith. O let my fingertips
know a stone from flesh!
There is no abyss, the ground
is flat and honest; the weed
allowed to flourish. I've loved
you like a socket in the soil
demanding less than roses.
Everything is sacred when
its tragic. The butterfly
who cannot tell the difference
from fresh or dying flowers,
the spider who creates a masterpiece
of silver ruined by flies, a bird
whose feathers are destoyed by
fire trembling in the boughs.
No comments:
Post a Comment