crookedsmile's picture

I throw a flower at your locked door,
and turn to stone waiting for you to see it.

I’d be this statue in your garden,
stand through rain and sun,
as all the seasons come and go,
if it means that I can watch you
walk on these paths
under reaching branches
of oaks, and silver maples.

But you never come here now.

This graceful face is pinching.
I’m tired of this ache,
like separation.
I’m tired of cold, cold stone,
feel how it stings,
like correction.

This garden is abandoned,
and I’m drowning in weeds.
You let the gateways go to rust.
Are you ever coming back?
Are you ever coming back?

Again with the poetry...I need to actually write something real. Like a story. Or a blog.


Beryl's picture

But I like your poems, just d

But I like your poems, just do both.... lol.

niks121997's picture

Silver maples

Silver maples brings such a beautiful image to mind. :)

"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream."