My Rooms of Poems will Receive Me

Slowly swayed were our little truths
The rinse of poems on a stretched out youth
Shimmering they left us bare
With Epitaphs for semantics

The final language of high tendrils
That swayed and sung
Of little things on the wood’s edge
And triumph amid

The warm summer air
The quiet doorway where we grew
From a broken house into true light
Firm between stones of artistry
*
What were we but the thoughts we made
The poems we wrote etched our
Entire biographies, as if the elected
Voice of the day, something to keep

A light-hearted author alive
Faith to point to burning greens
That would never die, Agh, with white flowers
Whose pollen would mix with the stars

Slowly swayed were our little truths
That redfaced love of younger years
It brought us clean vocabulary
Of all that time left undone

And polished our lips for stanzas
Sonnets of the moist black soil
Of our clutch on sentience, dearly trodden
The few words our lives would leave.
The few homes of moments gone unread.

Photography Credits: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/Drawing-Board-378815701