Inferior

a forest of wood bled into breeze,
a song of sight only seeing the trees.

when the truth is so rare that
your heart bleeds upon its noise
i know the time has come to 
learn a new language 

i'd be naive to believe in perfection
or that i'd be your nearest anchor
stars float like buoys at the peripheries
of my dissonance; a promise of life

pressed sunshine locked in vellum;
trite affection, solemn, splendid, trapped.

The End

9 comments about this poem Feed