You are a beautiful,
but imperfect man.
Is that what makes you,
beautiful to me,
when your imperfections,
rise as your shoulders,
out of the steam,
carved from a wooden trough,
where you sit idly sculpting,
your words as they form,
rings into the dripping sky,
aware of the way,
your body rests,
in the cradle of your,
carefully placed,
ritual of rose and tear water,
incense, listening to the wind,
move restlessly outside,
always knocking,
on your door,
pushing you to stand in the corner,
cracks dripping down into your,
soft crevices,
flirting with your shadows,
like your smile,
beautiful to me.
But like your shadow,
that slips between,
the turns away and to,
melting as the candlelight,
forming, shadows...
who is this man,
you pretend to be?
How can you still be,
beautiful to me?
idle rain sighs rumors,
into my ears,
beautiful to me,
I whisper to no one in particular,
beautiful to me.
No comments:
Post a Comment