Dec 2010
Tracing lines, abstract and refined,
no course to follow, each shape fresh,
unique, more glorious than any hand or eye,
dare attempt to write upon the ground.
Even midst the grime and filth,
beauty scales mountains of foul,
crowning in chaotic perfection,
with frosts sweet, hard hand.
Let us look awhile,
leave with a quiet glance,
no regret or loss,
fresh wonders still await our gaze.
no course to follow, each shape fresh,
unique, more glorious than any hand or eye,
dare attempt to write upon the ground.
Even midst the grime and filth,
beauty scales mountains of foul,
crowning in chaotic perfection,
with frosts sweet, hard hand.
Let us look awhile,
leave with a quiet glance,
no regret or loss,
fresh wonders still await our gaze.
I'm not to sure if my titles always put over what I am feeling. I just whack one down, write a poem then don't change (axcept mi spelln), do they seem relevant to you?
