I think in poems.
A life measured out
in stanzas.
Meted in
pentameter.
A coffee cup
becomes an ode.
A blade of grass:
a sonnet.
The drab world
painted in infinite hues,
with a blundering
fury of strokes.
but all the while,
as summer begins it's
bright ascent
and the Earth flips
and wobbles about,
I languish
over
words.
1 comments:
In true poet fashion I took a rather nice compliment from Edward and made it self depracating.
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