Vagabond's Vision #87
Modest moments
akin to almost nothingness,
pursuing an escape from cluttered attributes,
attributed to over-the-edge
pushing of saddening
murmurs.
Escape requires relinquishing desire.
Doors,
the more elaborate retain closure.
A gifted hand
spun coloristic yarn into gifts
bequeathing symphony atop
doorstep's hardened hand.
A boy ran smiling
across lengths of rhythmic flowing air,
allowing panoramic views
and
birds from elevated vantage points
organic reasons to caw chamomile
sounds in celebrated versions of
unclenching sadness.
1 comment:
The thing I like about this poem is caw chamomile. You never hear those two words together.
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