if i lack imagination,

or hope

or dreams

or clay,

to see the world in rainbows

in rain

in hugs

in may;

perhaps its due

to dues not mine

which i have had

to fill,

and pain in droves

littered in filth

heaped high upon

my sill.

yet still

in time

there ought to be

some space

to laugh out loud,

those belly laughs

you do so well

while i

still make you proud.

and there we sit

on bench bequeathed

by staunchly royal folk,

beneath peeled palm

or cedar wood

or perfect climbing oak.

so sit we there

small hand in large

two hearts that share

one beat

and think of old

and dream of new

where dreams of poets meet.

and there in breath

of sun and state

and oddly drawn horse,

slow breath gets drawn

in sweet success

and never ending


cause here we are

the royal odd

of artists,



the ones that cry,

embroidered tears

love slowly

filling holes,

of deep neglect

and separatists

in worlds that cannot give,

perhaps its here

in small sweet steps,

where life begins

to live.



About lifeofawillow

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