One dark morning,
I met a poet.
his fingers were made of gold,
and when the scorching afternoon heat came along,
they melted onto the paper he held.
he read the words to me,
as waves crashed against our feet.
they were like strands of honey,
soft, mellow and sweet.
he spoke of his distant troubles,
like a bout of passing thunder.
and as night fell,
he disappeared,
leaving only his paper behind.
etched onto the white,
were only a small string of words.
'we are all poets. we all have fingers of gold. we have to let them melt. to see what they behold.'
VOCÊ ESTÁ LENDO
3.2 | The End of Infinity
Poesiawe hide our inner pain behind smiles filled with hope. until, the hope evaporates and everything has g o n e . [poetry by a]
