Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I dream
as a flower,
opening
in waves
as I open
the pages
of a book,
I bloom
between
dreams
and reality
while in
sips of tea,
the people
I walk past,
they too,
are beings
of water
in the  
oceans of
the mind,
visitors of
the earth,
stars are
in the words
they speak
within the
the ease
of the
midnight
hour, the
propeller
seeds lift
for the
moon in
the eyes
they held
for one
another,
it is in
presence,
the depth
in the
quiet
longing
to only
read
of the
secrets
of love
I, the
writer,
wish to
sing to
them,
“all the
unsung
is, by
the sight
of the
heart,
sung
forever”,
so then,
all the things
they behold
become
as they are,
wondrous.
I see
the roses
in you, the
delicate
petals of
of being
human,
the thorns
of us have
broken
the chains,
our feathers
glide when
darkness
once
wished
to down
the soar
of our
wings,
feathers
glide from
loud howls,
floating
up to the
place we
call as
truth.
A girl
had seen
the once
hidden
stars before
her eyes,
as small
as they
were,
they saw
a refuge
in the place
she called
tears,
soaring
in the
night, she
gently
lands in
the garden
of the moon,
she had seen
every petal
as a word of
poetry, a
cinematic
scene,
the flowers of
her becomes
a guest within
the heart,
they asked,
“how did
you know
of our
secrets?”
to which
she says,
“I am
love and
so are
you”.
If only
I was
able to
open
your
skin,
healing
the wounds
you hold
deep in
you with
the touch
of my
hands,
for now,
I only
possess
these
words,
but, do
you not
see?
even
they are
not enough,
only you
are.
Walk in
the garden
of the moon
as a lover,
the flowers of
you becomes
a guest within
the heart,
it does
not ask
of how
you bloom,
but, of how
you became
the home.
We look
upon the
the flowers,
thinking,
“I was once
you, before
my eyes
were known
to your
bloom”
the wind is
lifting the
petals
gently as
wanderers
of the sea,
the night
falls,
us and
them
are as
blinking
stars,
floating
almost
endlessly,
unaware
of the
lights
we give,
and yet,
unwavering.
Do not
pity the
flower
that has
died, it
will bloom
once more,  
as an
ephemeral
moment
in life you
held dearly,
unaware of
how it
always
returned.
Next page