Mumbled greetings, fumbling hand,
Shaking only as a motion,
Perhaps none of them understand
Why on earth we do this band
Of formalities. A shallow ocean.
I’m sad to say that every day
Our time is but a muddled cloth
Of noise and poorly kneaded clay,
Converging to a shade of gray.
We squabble over a tasteless broth.
But in an evening what does matter
Is brought forth in a sudden white.
She does not take to heart such flatter
And feels no need to promptly shatter
A thing filled with simple delight.
Our claims can only go so far.
As if we knew none of violence,
We hold each snowflake as a star.
Their sheen makes the night popular.
The world watches her in silence.
Unpublished Material, ©2010 By Cali Digre
No comments:
Post a Comment