PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

...grip onto what seems to be real but the real concealed and dissolved into sand that leaked uncontrollably through my fingers...the truth is i am too young to have sung of aprils unsprung, blooms that met their dooms due to teenage swoons; makes me stare at the wall, look back on it all, wait forever for the other shoe to fall, diamonds turn out to be zirconias, pedals fall from the brightest begonias, gardening undaunted, i search the landscape, past follies unbereaved, still my tongue unsheathed and whispers desires to a pen of which ears just hear the scratch scratch of ink on paper, not knowing the capers of which it scribes...AND AGAIN im undaunted, the blind man doesn't see the light but he knows it's there, he need not rely on the words of the sighted, he knows its there. and the sighted are blind to how holy the light is, even though they started blind themselves, they gain the sight but lose perpective, prospective, directive and i am reflective, i see the eyes, they blaze through the clouds as unequalled sapphires, precious stones to be mined from within, their only rival is a smile that bears a soul with the understanding and constitution to last indefinite, soothe the deficit dug deep by Desdemonas undeserving; i imagine myself in scenarios playing hero, saving her from a burning building or at a bar, wooing and charming this muse alarming, alarming only by nature of comparison, by emergence from the placid pool of mediocrity, of faield tries and abandoned lies, others interpreted and viewed as glories soon skewed, rejected and deflected back below the surface; to become the magistrate of this magic state, this trance that at a glance one can only know is not love, but an intimacy and passion that unlike fashion does not fade or abade but lives on beyond the shade or grave...