The time has come to fell the flowers; it’s autumn now, the summer’s bounty waning. Outside I go, in the late morning hours, to do the deed, a buoyant manner feigning. Butterfly and bee fulfill their merry task of going back and forth between each bloom. Do they see me? If so, they do not ask whether I come to bring the garden’s doom.
With the remnants of my meager strength I slowly stand, turning the door handle, one thought guiding my shaking hand: The least I can do is know it all.
Smoke rises around me, steals my breath, and I can’t see. The life I’ve built is caving in; with bleeding lungs I let You in.
Never enough. Never enough. I am glory and disgrace. I’m tripping up at the end of the race. I’m a misspelled card, a hung-up phone. I’m always knowing and never known.
Poetry is written for the quiet ones, the soulful ones, the ones who let thoughts tangle in their throats before they ever get tangled in their hair. Poetry is written for the soft ones, the shy ones, the ones who dance in midnight shadows and sip on moonlight tea.