Revolution (For Heather)
The Mozarts of the world are mostly blind to their own genius,
Arrhythmic pulses of creation lost,
With eyes of little children fettered,
And evanescent footprints on lines never crossed.
And when they die, they know their worth at last:
Deserted fragments of the most desired revolution
That will never come to pass.
Arrhythmic pulses of creation lost,
With eyes of little children fettered,
And evanescent footprints on lines never crossed.
And when they die, they know their worth at last:
Deserted fragments of the most desired revolution
That will never come to pass.
posted by WebKat at 1:54 PM
1 Comments:
no one's ever written me a poem before. as in, ever in my life. even the melancholy of the ending is still beautiful, because it's truth, it's raw, it's real.
thank you so much.
love,
heather
Post a Comment
<< Home