Wet paper arrows quivering against the bright string of the bow. The arrows
He drapes his hand over the mounta… Brushes his fingertips over the fi… His breath dusts the windowpanes w… He cries for Spring, his tears fa… Soft mounds of snow form below him…
The wind– A finicky rush That has to be somewhere else All the time. The faint echoes of summer
There are words that I was mistaken to say. There was one time when we were strangers,
My heart Is a glass ball Delicate Awaiting somebody Who will cradle it gently
What am I without poetry, Without words, blossoming on the page? I would be but a shell of myself And you would find me
All I have to say Is I am incomplete A story left unwritten A page left unturned But that does not matter
I want to hold your hand Tight in my own As we run far away To a brand new home. I want to cup your face
star-struck because stars are fictional, heavenly things. but
Muddled footsteps In the dirt, Wind in our ears, The sun Shrinks down beneath
star-drunk child, foolish in your fear— announce your cries to the night, feel the heat of life
Words are just words They say But if they’re “just words,” Why do they hurt so much more When they tell the truth?
Something is dying, Quivering on the edge Of my soul. It is shaking Swaying in the lightest breeze
Notes rolling off of my fingers The right hand sings a soft melody… The richer undertones of the left… Flowing and melting in swirling ma… The quiet inner voice on the right…
Hi Dad. I’d like you to know I’m finally Unboxing each memory Framed
