Shadows call out to me
when vulnerability seeps in
under my veil,
for, it knows well of my blank canvas.
If I could only pen petals
pulsating passion;
letting love color my imagination
anything but black,
but my words,
they follow breezes
and leave me here, dangling
-somewhere in between-
watching fireflies play
in clandestine corners
where constellations refuse to shine.
I could borrow brush
and beat old memories to death
to free my fingers;
rip out my heart
to find shreds of emotion
to feed fate's fancy,
but poetry, like love,
cannot be forced
or left gathering dust
beneath dried flowers
of a bride's maid bouquet.
It must be nurtured,
given room to bloom
flowing in perfect rhythm
to the shape of a heart.
♥
Bronze trophy winner
Gold trophy winner
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