Etched

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    Etched

    I caught them,

    in the middle of the Gasconade

    with treasure rocks

    and dreaming trees(ambitious, but misguided.....trying so hard to touch the sky)

    I was stealing fractions

    freezing them

    like dolls in glass

    to be there always and keep the secrets

    behind that smile....inside that look

    were you happy? were you dreaming? were you thinking of another time?

    for just that fraction of a second,

    could you feel how good it feels

    to simply be alive?



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    Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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    silentranks’s Poems (10)

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