There lies a small red planter
within the hollows of my chest:
Though it forbids all weeds to wander,
it still festers, nonetheless.
For the dirt inside my lungs
once froze in seasons past,
and the sun had not burned bright enough,
transforming beauty to barren casts.
But on this night I feel a stir—
not a bang, but yet, a whimper—
your hands held earth and held it close,
and buds bloom within the planter.
-
And as I listen to your breathing
whilst you tend the grove once more,
your soul sobs raindrops across my chest
and my heartstring roots are torn.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 1:48 AM UTC
There lies a small red planter
within the hollows of my chest:
Though it forbids all weeds to wander,
it still festers, nonetheless.
For the dirt inside my lungs
once froze in seasons past,
and the sun had not burned bright enough,
transforming beauty to barren casts.
But on this night I feel a stir—
not a bang, but yet, a whimper—
your hands held earth and held it close,
and buds bloom within the planter.
-
And as I listen to your breathing
whilst you tend the grove once more,
your soul sobs raindrops across my chest
and my heartstring roots are torn.
