Photo by Magnus Thompson on Unsplash
What is real when
All is subterfuge?
Twigs for bones,
Branches twisting into deep relief,
The scent of Jasmine,
Bare feet on the humus,
Without substance in the shade -
Hiding.
For who would have the grit to be an Angel
When, I have heard, each is a unique species,
Each a new design; unrepeated
So we are too, in our way, albeit after a pattern,
Therefore we hide,
All double blind and half aware.
Either I am as I appear,
Or I appear as I am,
But that is rare.
About the Creator
A M Clark
I'm a classical painter. My favourite medium is oil paint, but sometimes I like to use words. Thanks for reading!
Comments (1)
That was beautiful :) Thank you for reading my haiku by the way