Gathering silence
With greedy fingertips
It takes too much to speak
And there are no words
To give me breath
There is nothing here
But peace
I stand here waiting again
The directions spun
I should be lost…I think
Instead I’m listening
Like it’s the same old thing
Same old, same old thing again
I’ve left something behind
I know I did
Maybe it’s not the blossoms
That are so out of place
Against these cold, gray days
Maybe it's me
2 comments:
A beautiful poem. Don't feel so blah; it's spring, beautiful time of the year. : )
This is beautifully written. I like the way it begins.
"Gathering silence
With greedy fingertips" :)
It also has a nice, internal rhythm, esp in the second stanza.
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