09-09-2011, 09:49 AM
the notes flutter,
distinct wings of stained glass
to me, but he
grew jaded,
pawed for them,
for validation.
he played.
stumbled through mud:
greenhorn.
is that what poets think of me?
took him
for a rookie,
but when squinting . . .
a flutter floating,
the wings
between errors.
a stunted songster, blundered strums,
yet passion bubbled.
a child
awed by everything.
is that what poets think of me?
distinct wings of stained glass
to me, but he
grew jaded,
pawed for them,
for validation.
he played.
stumbled through mud:
greenhorn.
is that what poets think of me?
took him
for a rookie,
but when squinting . . .
a flutter floating,
the wings
between errors.
a stunted songster, blundered strums,
yet passion bubbled.
a child
awed by everything.
is that what poets think of me?
Quote:Original:
the notes flutter,
distinct wings of stained glass
to me, but he
grew jaded,
pawed for them . . .
for validation.
he played.
stumbled through
mud.
greenhorn.
I wonder if that's what poets think of me.
saw him
for a rookie,
but when squinting . . .
a flutter,
the wings
between errors.
a stunted songster, blundered strums,
yet passion bubbled.
a child
awed
by everything.
I wonder if that's what poets think of me.