Goldenrods and oak
Flecks of emerald and amber
Awake! vivid spring
a little haiku for spring
Oh how the sunset
Meddles with me
Searing the sky
Split me open
And pour my tears
Like milk into a cats dish.
What is it that you see deep within me?
What fluttering thoughts land with meeting eyes?
What varies between what's been and could be?
When we live so thinly on worldly ties
As you gaze out your spirits window pane
Intimacy takes place in history
Do all these feelings know when to remain?
What is left aft the death of mystery?
A shadow cries beads of blackened lost flecks
Translucent puddles form into nothing
A storm looks within itself and reflects
On how the sun rose it to its brewing
And when I see you, you become my sight
There's no il only courage, will, and might
She looked in the mirror
And saw flecks of his broken soul inside herself
What rarity can acclaim to this elusive title? Where surely
claiming it itself is against its nature.
It might be what our mothers told grubby faced, knee
knocked flecks that dart from graffitied parks
when light turns dark.
Is it in the eye of the beholder, a stubborn piece
of irritating dust? Perhaps those who search
will never be rewarded with a glimpse as
perfection becomes unfathomably further.
Why does the haughty swan rise when the
it squawks more than the pigeon?
Beauty is boxed. It is wrapped in parcels and
swaddled in ribbon until one forgets that it is in the child's
face and not his hands.
Unmeasurable pleasure shouldn't be contained, it roams and commands like a caged tiger. It controls the eye and navigates,
onward soldier. So perhaps it is not rare at all but there
for all customary enough to
anticipate the undeniable.
Can't tell if this even makes sense. Oh well.
— The End —