For one to write about me, would be a
concussion of optimistic reflections.
My words conceal intentionally
inner reflections that even
I haven't gazed upon.
I'm a fragment of a picture wrote upon,
but then bleached with new horizons
that are neither rising or setting.
Conclusions of my thoughts are like a hurricane in
the confines of a daisy.
Bright but the beauty never
really placed singularly
but chained together
in a forced marriage of convenience.
I'm neither what one would expect
or the conclusion of a vast dissection
to collect
evidence to my meaning and function.
I'm a verse that moves further than
when the words finish finitely.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 2:20 PM UTC
For one to write about me, would be a
concussion of optimistic reflections.
My words conceal intentionally
inner reflections that even
I haven't gazed upon.
I'm a fragment of a picture wrote upon,
but then bleached with new horizons
that are neither rising or setting.
Conclusions of my thoughts are like a hurricane in
the confines of a daisy.
Bright but the beauty never
really placed singularly
but chained together
in a forced marriage of convenience.
I'm neither what one would expect
or the conclusion of a vast dissection
to collect
evidence to my meaning and function.
I'm a verse that moves further than
when the words finish finitely.
