In poems beyond my edge,
I masquerade still, even more-so
Camouflaging no less often
I relinquish my words to the
crackling wind of naked trees
Daring all to fly
to find another sky
Instead they flutter, like yesterday's leaves,
crystallized in the exhilarating chill of abandonment’s freedom
to lie in wait for a braver me
Apr 18
Apr 18, 2026 at 12:50 AM UTC
In poems beyond my edge,
I masquerade still, even more-so
Camouflaging no less often
I relinquish my words to the
crackling wind of naked trees
Daring all to fly
to find another sky
Instead they flutter, like yesterday's leaves,
crystallized in the exhilarating chill of abandonment’s freedom
to lie in wait for a braver me
The higher echelon of poetry is beyond my ability to create. I’m self aware. I know.
This is about those poems. The ones I can’t write.
