I can still remember the gleam in his eyes
As he rustled restlessly through seperated sheets;
Through theorems and astronomical anomalies like they were fallen leaves
Or crumpled oragami octogons
They sprinkled the ground like contrasting colours against his pale paper skin
And I always thought that he was such a realistic replica of those paper creations
Unlike the fictional falsities of the sullen stained glass eyes that gape in wicked wonder;
So different from the horrid hatred that is hubris humanity
And, to me--so frail like a bare winter oak--he was a dragon.
With widespread wings and a magnificent might
Shielded skin with tougher tendons and a heart made of molten majesty
So pure that it poured to those around him, cooled, and forged something new: something gold.
But how malleable is gold, this soft shiny metal that gleams in the heart of greed? Under-appreciated; Its true beauty lost.
Because I've seen that he is not a serpentine Sergeant,
Beauty to him is not materialistic matter
His scales are the folded files that were found on the floor
His vessel is vain, sullied and flawed
Filled with holes and hollows and rips and wrinkles
Because his oragami organs are held together by nothing but a dollop of duct tape
But he's stronger than any burly beast
YOU ARE READING
Book of Poetry
PoetryA book of poems that randomly came about. Mostly inspirational I guess? And passionate :3 I write poems when I get that way, so...♡
