I want to be beautiful poetry, but instead I am vapid stanzas,
An indrawn breath between the lines.
The dampened air before the rain, and the traffic light that never turns
I am the catch in a song and the dying embers of firelight,
I am an inland lighthouse.
I am an abandoned wasps' nest and a mangy alley cat,
A tarnished ring in a landfill,
But I am also pearlescent, the destination after a long journey,
Beautiful, in its own way.