I suppose that,
As an author,
No one would bother
To think,
Or to ponder,
At the multicolored tubings of our minds.
Blind, they would rather be,
To the undying wonder
Of a brain that is simply mine,
Or a brain that is simply their own,
For we are all aware–
Although it remains unknown–
That we are each Pacific Oceans,
Grasping on to the tide of hope,
Undulating in anticipation,
Bursting at the seams
That our hearts try
Yet fail to scope,
As authors.
Cameron Bell, Copyright © 2019
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 10:49 AM UTC
I suppose that,
As an author,
No one would bother
To think,
Or to ponder,
At the multicolored tubings of our minds.
Blind, they would rather be,
To the undying wonder
Of a brain that is simply mine,
Or a brain that is simply their own,
For we are all aware–
Although it remains unknown–
That we are each Pacific Oceans,
Grasping on to the tide of hope,
Undulating in anticipation,
Bursting at the seams
That our hearts try
Yet fail to scope,
As authors.
Cameron Bell, Copyright © 2019