A dot outside the circle,
Isolated.
Feeling as if I'm
A puddle on the beach.
So close, almost the ocean.
So close to the sea it needs to join,
Otherwise it will evaporate
Unfinished.
I am the one who waits for the time to speak,
But opens his mouth once the moment passes. Too late.
The tide of conversation has gone out,
Leaving just a puddle on the beach.
When the rain comes to drench the soil,
It's the crop that grows offside,
Not a **** but un-harvested nonetheless,
That's yearning for a transplant into the greener side.
And if this flower was to be picked,
Would the field realise?
Eventually.
You don't realise something's there until it's gone.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
A dot outside the circle,
Isolated.
Feeling as if I'm
A puddle on the beach.
So close, almost the ocean.
So close to the sea it needs to join,
Otherwise it will evaporate
Unfinished.
I am the one who waits for the time to speak,
But opens his mouth once the moment passes. Too late.
The tide of conversation has gone out,
Leaving just a puddle on the beach.
When the rain comes to drench the soil,
It's the crop that grows offside,
Not a **** but un-harvested nonetheless,
That's yearning for a transplant into the greener side.
And if this flower was to be picked,
Would the field realise?
Eventually.
You don't realise something's there until it's gone.
September 2015
