Poetry is beauty because of its ambiguity
It's not black or white
Or even gray
It's indigo skies
Golden rays of warm light.
It's bitter morning frost on the hood of your car,
Sweet squishy sand in St. Tropez.
It's the thud of a heartbeat,
The silence of a blink.
It's the emptiness of the mind
And the ingenuity that fills it.
Poetry is nothing...
But boy is it everything.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
Poetry is beauty because of its ambiguity
It's not black or white
Or even gray
It's indigo skies
Golden rays of warm light.
It's bitter morning frost on the hood of your car,
Sweet squishy sand in St. Tropez.
It's the thud of a heartbeat,
The silence of a blink.
It's the emptiness of the mind
And the ingenuity that fills it.
Poetry is nothing...
But boy is it everything.
