It takes a life time to write a poem.
For we are that poem.
We are that lifetime.
Borne untouched.
We leave the safety of a warm cocoon,
one that wraps us in our gentle embalm of trust.
And in this wholly venture,
of life now aroused.
Comfort is questioned.
Reason shaken.
Love oft spilt,
like a shimmering of milk,
flavoured on pages lived.
and this is us.
The knights spent, satisfied.
Discourse now a cacophony shattered.
But it is with presence that we remember and hold.
That the truth is waiting, always.
In bide of time.
Jubilant as the holistic Clementine,
tucked amongst the serene pages of yet to come.
And still
and still …
We are as sprinkle infinite, shredded as the coconut that falls as thought from our palm.
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 11:02 PM UTC
It takes a life time to write a poem.
For we are that poem.
We are that lifetime.
Borne untouched.
We leave the safety of a warm cocoon,
one that wraps us in our gentle embalm of trust.
And in this wholly venture,
of life now aroused.
Comfort is questioned.
Reason shaken.
Love oft spilt,
like a shimmering of milk,
flavoured on pages lived.
and this is us.
The knights spent, satisfied.
Discourse now a cacophony shattered.
But it is with presence that we remember and hold.
That the truth is waiting, always.
In bide of time.
Jubilant as the holistic Clementine,
tucked amongst the serene pages of yet to come.
And still
and still …
We are as sprinkle infinite, shredded as the coconut that falls as thought from our palm.
