A day,
I would be less conscious of
Of a sojourn I wouldn't remember
When snow would please me none
Let my chimney burn with smoke
Ere kids gift me lavender berries
Let me bake a black forest.
My pastel walls would peel off soon
And meowing cats would roll off yarns
Flowy flocks would not beam
With velvety bangs I once had.
When my eyes would deny the tint it had
And dawn would break with hue less shines
Thus, I would lay
On this bed of blue bells
Grieve me not
Youthful as April I had been
Remember,
A petal withers once
But blooms yet again.
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Can Poetry Heal? - Collections of a Wanderer
PoetryIs there a way out from this labyrinth? Maybe in poems and unsaid love we can seek refuge. Perhaps, this is what we stay alive for.
