A flower in my garden of lovely memories. I will water you with irritable acknowledgment, a furrow in my brow, a hitch in my voice and movements for years to come. I will water you with a glow when I close my eyes and think of firsts.
But you will be no different. No different from my other flowers, except you grow on the vine winding on the brick house of my heart. You fall and bloom just like the rest of my annuals, and you will fade in colour until I decide to move you, for a little while, out of the melancholy shade of my poetry into the vibrance of the sun that bears my intensity.
The trees will outshine you in autumn, the snow in winter, new life in spring and even in the languid heat of summer you will be outshone by the beauty I am determined to experience, by the new flowers I am determined to plant.
Someday I will plant a little flower in a small clay pot and keep it with me wherever I go, to be prominent among all of you flowers, to be my favorite and most prized, to be public for everyone to see.
Information re: the blog that is mine
- B. R. Knee
- Hi there, what you're about (or not, you're hardly being forced to [as what I have to say may be beneficial, modern reason dictates it is not obligatory]) to read are the rantings, ramblings, and occasional gleeposts of a kid whose only real virtue is outrage and whose vice is joy. I use little to no statistics and generally back myself up anyway. It's difficult to use reason to do that, you know. This is my "srs bsns" blog; I'm rancidly obnoxious at other places (said places can be found in my links, of all the areas in which I could have provided alternative versions of myself).
No comments:
Post a Comment