Walking into a field of flowers,
ten steps beyond the safety gates
instinct warns me
there is no turning back.
It isn't so much the walk down here
that has me holding my breath –
rather, the denuded mistletoe
plonk in the middle of the daises
gets my adrenaline on high.
Footprints lead here,
each with a thrilling tale
if only I could read
None lead back to the gates,
held in rhapsody, I believe.
There are no butterflies and bees out here,
those beings need summer, not spring.
I left the sunshine behind me long ago
and the wholesomeness of fear was never my lot.
I wonder if I will find the flavor
of a long-ago pine nut,
aged in a wooden jar,
somewhere between bad breath
or will it taste good,
a first kiss truly meant?
Or will it be like having to choose
between bonbons and chocolate,
a thought of enormous and yet
I was told to keep the poems
close to where he couldn't get
at them, so I could always
have words with me.
I wonder if he is a poet himself,
for, the pleasure of osculating
my lips comes at a price,
even for Death.
Poetry by Arti
Read 1072 times
Written on 2007-09-23 at 04:14
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)