You brittle sword blades that play at being soft,
with your fucking allure and goddamn velvet looks.
All supple and inviting,
green and enticing,
even though I know you’re full of bugs.
I’ll lay down,
Sucker for your edges on my skin.
That’s Spring,
time for lying shoots,
stubborn goofs.
Simulacrum bonsai spirit shining bright,
tendril bushings famously tiny
sit so perfectly tight.
Clipped to stand proudly small,
deficiency rests on laurels deep inside
where no one fears the height
but is aware of the fall.
Watered down trivia the company kept,
guessing games fuel creativity
while vices rumble and trouble
until tranquility arrives, envelops and sets.
Your ghost is born on silent words,
freedom found out where they fly
unbound from earth by roots,
out in the open air
where birds sing and lost men die.
To Ink - a blog from Melting Neurons 