Inside desperate aspirations teem
Outside a beautiful sky
Sleepy scattered shadows
Slats of a wooden bench
A tray for the service of daydreams.
Inside desperate rasping thirst
For the waters of a far mirage
Outside moist earth, a crocus, a songbird
A jetstream, high stratus, and the sun.
Why die in the sands of accomplishment?
1 comment:
I have always admired those who write poetry, never having been able to pen even two lines. How do you do it? In which part of your brain does that inspiration/abilty reside? I like your poem and the mood it conveys.
Hans
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