Clouds obscure my love, the sun
But spring, finally, is mine
The birds return, winter is done
And new life begins as a shrine
Rain falls softly, but I do not shun
This is peace, for I am not blind
Even when clouds obscure the sun
I have chosen, still, to remain kind
(NaPoWriMo prompt 4 <33)
You see, friend?
The way the sky darkens?
The way the stars become aware?
You see the horizon, the distant lands
Of moon-rock and sleeping metal?
I hate rhyme
And as a poet, that seems silly
I hate the flow it creates, the way
It reminds me of a kids book
It turns serious topics into
I would like to consider myself a poet
A wordsmith, a dreamer, a god
I would like to call what I write poetry
But the thing about poets
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