I thought myself a poet
until I heard you breathe weave lies
And I believed with dewy eyes;
mesmerized by the sheer splendor
of your furtive words.
It was always a secret—
I shouldn’t tell a soul
Keep a straight face,
a steady hand;
Act normal.
I heeded your suggestions
but not your commands.
Denied all blooming questions
the sunlight
despite the liquid clarity
clinging to their leaves;
Repressing the memories
of our excessive reprieves.
And what did I expect
besides a potpourri
when it all deceased?
Author notes
Another poem for the boy whose name is lower than dirt
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