Staring out of a window
into a green and orange world of half burnt trees
from inside the striped walls of a temporary “home,”
I would shake and worry.
Who knows why,
but something about even the slightest sway of the distant tree would frighten me.
Now I beg to see the topiary dance in the wind from that window.
Now I beg that those striped walls would surround me again,
for temporary is something we always miss,
once it’s gone.
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Author:
Alex (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: February 4th, 2018 00:08
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
Offline)
Comments2
Love these last two lines, Alex! And how many times does something temporary turn into something permanent!
And everything is temporary! Good poem.
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