Songs will be whistled along

when the rains paint your name

as they trickle down the roof

 

hiccup-

The poet is a market

and his pride is the people

 

When he leaves the stage,

he shall nail you as a memory

to the crevices of his being

 

His life is a symphony composed on violin

and you are his pitch,

a taste like aging wine

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s