"Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words."
-Edgar Allan Poe
Every instant, followed by other
succulent moments
that get lost in the tidal waves goodbye.
each rose, gets watered because the skies
felt generous that day.
the stones that we cast,
etched with smiles and tears from the past.
fossilized venom that spews
hatred that reigns in a world of broken lullabies.
the steps; that we grew to follow
slowly dissipate and we're left
to find meaning in hollow tree stumps
where sap used to freely flow.
what i'm saying is-
things change, the gray clouds
always leave. and all that's left
is empty eyes, and withered shrouds
of dignity.
in the end, we're all replaceable
and the stumps that we carved our
initials into- will surely be cut down.
and in it's place
will sprout another life, one worth keeping alive.
one worth more than mine.