Blonde after blonde,
strangers
stroll in,
no idea who you are,
not a clue where you're going.
I am among
a new wave of writers
with anxiety on the table,
pursuing acclaim for incoherency.
Some are absent
like a snowflake at Christmas,
failed to come forward
over the horizon
where rainclouds don't depart.
Naturally reserved
in our asylum of words
but it's a melee
to be heard,
to be seen,
a rising flower
on the cusp of spring.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
Blonde after blonde,
strangers
stroll in,
no idea who you are,
not a clue where you're going.
I am among
a new wave of writers
with anxiety on the table,
pursuing acclaim for incoherency.
Some are absent
like a snowflake at Christmas,
failed to come forward
over the horizon
where rainclouds don't depart.
Naturally reserved
in our asylum of words
but it's a melee
to be heard,
to be seen,
a rising flower
on the cusp of spring.
Written: October 2012.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, also available on my WordPress blog.
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