She feels it slipping through her fingers like so much
unwanted trivials.
But she wants it. Wants to hold it and keep it forever. Liquid dreams slip-slide through her flimsy
clasp of hands and she loses her thoughts, her muse.
Were she to be able to pen these dreams before they
fluttered from her brain like leaves in the winds maybe the world would
understand her musings and see the poet’s soul within. Instead she is left with
fragments and pieced together bits that do not tell a whole story and no one recognises
the way the words fit but her since she is the only one that knows there are
pieces missing.
No comments:
Post a Comment