I touched the stone
On the statue
And it melted into
Drops of milk and vanilla
A year gone by
And a new river flows
With bone and sugar and ash
The dewlets accumulated
From what once was
Stone.

What is poetry? Is it happiness. Or is it insanity, or is it just moments of our lives caught and frozen. Put on display for all to see.I guess poetry is whatever we want it to be.

The song sings of the moon and the moon sings that song

Is half the truth a lie? Or is it perspective.

How beautiful art thou; rain.
Pittering and pattering, into nothingness.
Dripping and dropping in a steady beat.
Splitting and Splattering but soothing.
What a feat.

How beautiful art thou; rain.
Small and light, crystal and clear.
Sent from the heavens above.
The gentle weeping and tear.
What a sight.

How beautiful art thou; rain.
With soft drops to the loudest of splashes.
Big but small, quiet but not so.
Call upon the lightening, your company.
What a sound.

How beautiful art thou; rain.
Washing away sadness and bring new life.
Day or night, you see through everything.
Morning or evening, your steadiness fails to change.
What a night.