01-20-2018, 01:48 AM
Seen Across a Slanted Table
There is nothing romantic in words
that drift deceptive as snow
to cover the spaces between
what we must not mention, but yet
still glistens behind the bite
of our sad smiles.
There is nothing peaceful in quiet.
Winter is not a poultice for spring,
but the nothing that browns the leaf,
eats the fruit of the tree, and remains,
like our intentions,
ever empty.
There is nothing romantic in words
that drift deceptive as snow
to cover the spaces between
what we must not mention, but yet
still glistens behind the bite
of our sad smiles.
There is nothing peaceful in quiet.
Winter is not a poultice for spring,
but the nothing that browns the leaf,
eats the fruit of the tree, and remains,
like our intentions,
ever empty.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson