PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

On the brink of
the morning
it smells of african wild flowers
the doomed sky spills monochromes
my eyes adjust, instantly

it is like that,
the slow churn of breathing
a soul leaks into the ground, to be
recycled
This is what our eyes do not see.

And what of our love?
I have it, peripherally
I knew the second I found you, that
it was to be this way

There are too many things that
go unseen
And I fear I am at that specific angle in
which I can pin everything to its source
Something speaks to me

and I have to listen