©2010 B. Clary
I often think in poetry.
It is a curse my own disease.
To look upon a tree in awe,
Its gnarled roots in winters thaw.
The rolling hills, flowers in sync,
Petals so soft like lips of pink.
A splash of blue upon the sky,
As feathered clouds lazily float by.
The birds they sing in happy tune,
From dawn until the light of moon.
To look upon two lovers kiss,
To know what warmth comes with its bliss.
Sadly a darker half we hide
Poetic curses have two sides
The same tree withers in its loss,
No sign of life, not even moss.
The rolling hills, shallow grave sites,
Reminders of life’s restless plight.
Now only gray blankets the air,
The howling wind clings on despair,
All chirping now has come to cease,
The darkness brings its eerie peace.
Those lovers, yes we see them now,
Adulterous, they break their vows.
I often think in poetry.
My gift, my curse, un-spurned disease.
-Clary
Sarcastically Cynical 