I dream of soft verses and gracious patterns of flowering branches.
I dream of poetry that touches the heart like a feather.
This golden verse flows loosely in meaning
Like Ophelia's long hair dipped in water.
This quiet verse has no rhythm or context.
The rhythm is silent, like an oar gliding.
The verses are weak, made of old cloth.
like sound and vapor, untouchable.
These verses are like autumn nights, with short syllables
The verses are like an autumn night, with short syllables and shadowy rhymes that charm and bewitch time.
I dream of verses as soft as a wilting rose.
About the Creator
Wimble Huhman
Where there is soil, where there is water, grass grows
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from Wimble Huhman and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments (1)
Very pleasant. It has an ethereal quality. I think you may have written part of the last verse twice though.