You might count the flowers, and the hours
(but who more closely: I, or you?)
where hardly an accounting
is even sought, implied.
If flowers, hours wrote
their own ledger
--book of dreams--
you'd read...
through?
About the Creator
Mark Francis
Published translator of verse and original writer of haiku, senryu, lyric, occasional and genre poetry and speculative fiction.
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The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived
You were supposed to be the one person I could confide in. Hell. You were the one person I could confide in. You were my everything. You were the one person I thought would never hurt me - the one person I couldn't ever picture hurting me. You used to fight to keep me safe. You used to be the one who'd pull me out in order to keep me safe. You were my everything. My everything. I used to love every single ounce of you, and now I can't even think of your name without crying. I can't look at a picture of you without feeling like someone shoved a razor-sharp dagger into my lung. So I guess what I have to say is...
By 'Lissa Stufflestreet6 days ago in Poets
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