PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Trees stand blowing this

way and that

I like them, because they die with dignity

They die with old tales and creaking songs

But I don't like you

You fester viciously in my soul

I had it hard for you, you know

like Van Gogh had it hard for art

But art means nothing to the artist

You'll see this, when history

wakes up and tells the real story

I could have told you what it was like,

to sit outside during a warm february

taking in air like it

was going somewhere

And you'll see, one day you'll wonder

what it was like to breathe in the

careful way in which I breathed

You'll move on,

and collect another tattoo that outstands the other tattoos

And men will eat your golden summer honey

and they'll kiss you quiet and slow

And I'll just keep watching the news

waiting for the world to consume the trees and

the dignity of dying breeds

Just as it has done, to me and you