Flowers love music I tell you
We see them
Our open eyes just can't hear them
Plaintively, we live to strum their chords
from beneath moulds of ground
We ought to stop and listen
Embroided is the haunt
in the beauty and tragedy
of living sound
To each man his own poison
and therapy
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Author:
Garth Rakumakoe (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 12th, 2024 17:17
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: Alan R
Offline)
Comments2
Superb work.
Agreed!
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