Blame Quintushalls for this.
3 posts • Page 1 of 1
Poetry isn't dead, you're just going to the wrong places/reading the wrong things.
Living like flowers
Across the land lay fields of purest snow.
Restrained, the crocus must await the sun.
The winter land is bleak, cold even though
It glistens like a web a spider spun.
The beauty locked in constant restful sleep;
A promise made to man that each springtime
New life would come, and then the promise keep
Until the next cold winter reigns sublime.
Each year I watch the seasons come and leave;
And like the flowers bloom and then they die,
My heart will follow them, no warmth received.
Another empty year, no chance to fly.
To soar on wings of love a man desires.
No more or less does he ever require.