Melancholy,
as it sounds
you’re the glory
while I am the ground.
Ashes grown
in plants I smoke.
Burning up,
the weed we toke.
Desperately trying
to keep your gaze,
learning from
our lonesome days.
Swallowing the truth
we found
cowering on
the soft and sound.
I love you now
as I loved you then.
But does it matter,
where and when?
For hearts to think
and souls to mend,
I can’t imagine
our paths won’t blend.
A song I know
once has said
it’s all the same
when said in bed.
Breathing in,
a smaller time;
a summer sound,
a silver chime.
About the Creator
Rielee Flodin
I love humans too much not to write about them. We suck, but I’m trying to suck less.
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February 6, 2016
It suddenly occurred to me earlier this week that I will never hear every sound. I was walking to my car and it was raining. I thought about the sound of each different raindrop hitting the wet ground and how every one of them has to sound at least the slightest bit different. Raindrops aside, there are all of these sounds in the world, and I will never hear them all.
By Rielee Flodin6 years ago in Poets
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