Shy

Sleeting snowflakes melt be for me.
As a flame burns from one’s heart so warm.
For it might be winter at its coldest yet it is more like springs warmth that I feel.
Yet so afraid so not one word of this is said.
For not wanting to extinguish this delicate flame.
For not wanting to feel the cold of winter again to soon.  
Yet is it wrong to say nothing?
For maybe you feel the same spring warmth.
Yet you do not show unless it is just me unable to read the signs.
For even in such little of time.
For is it so that two strangers can meet somewhere and have so much in common.
And have a bond made yet still delicate still shaking so unsure of this spring in the middle of winter.
So careful footprints do I tread upon.  
For who knows how this will play out.  
Who knows what is yet to be said.

We are all our own mistakes.
For all that we have made.
Whether they be simple or unforgivable.
For like a puppet carved from wood, so too are we carved by our mistakes.
  For it is our mistakes that seemed to be seen clearly.
Yet that is not to say that is all that is seen.  
For mistakes can also be mended.
And as a lesson can also be learnt.
For mistakes are like teachers yet their lessons are not in writing.

Throw another log of misunderstanding on the fire.
  And let it burn till the dust and ash settle, clearing the smoke from the air.
Yet leaving a smouldering ember to remind us of a lesson learnt.
For no one is perfect and misunderstandings are just prove of that in one way.
Yet as temperatures rise they also cool off given time and  understanding.
  For misunderstandings are like the wrong question given for something.
  Yet once the right question is found so to can the answer , and with it an understanding for what has been  misunderstood.

Breaking through the ice of isolation.
Years of boundaries and walls breaking crumbling down.
  Years have nothing now wanting something.  
A voice once silent now calls out to anyone.
Exchange the dark for a little light.
  Finding change to be a breath of air gone with the style and in with the fresh.
For life is full of changes some good some bad, but they always bring something new.
And a change either way it may go can help you move along your way in life.
For a change is what you make of it.

Strip everything back to a blank canvas.
  And find a colour that fits.
For what is painted on the inside, is what is really seen upon the outside.
  For even the best looking can be overlooked.
For if you look properly looks are like a cover of a magazine.
  Made to draw you in.
Yet it is still what’s on the inside that makes you want to buy it.
And for like a cover of a magazine.
   Over time it gets wrinkled and loses its glossy looks.
And so too do we.
And there for in the end, it is only what’s on the inside.
That is all that is left to see.

A falling feather floats through the air.
  Lost from that who used to own it.
Yet holding itself up within the air for one last dance, before it is taken by the ground below.
  Floating slowly gently as it makes its way to where it will rest.
  For the feather like everything else that its time has passed, has been set free.

As I look upon a piece of paper that of which is blank.  
Wondering what to write this time.
  So I took some time to look at it.
And I saw how nice and neat it looked.
With its lines straight and evenly spaced.
  And its colour a fresh clean white.
As it waited to have the colour added to it.
Whether it be by the ink of a pin or the lead of a pencil.
  It does not matter to a blank piece of paper.  
And as I write I can see it come to life by the words that I write.
That make up sentences to fill the blank Lines with life and character for all to read.
  For when we write a blank piece of paper starts to come to life.
Even if just by one word.