I know which figs to reach for
It’s a simple matter finding the sweetest
And just so
life could be as sweet
But it is not
I am stunted
Nipped at the bud
By my own hand
And blame the world for making shears
For fear of bearing rotten fruit
I hang tightly to precious
Perfect
little blossoms
a cage of straining limbs
leaves curled in anger
The way out
Carved
into a key
Thrown away
But i am always mindful
Of the glint
From where it landed
No comments:
Post a Comment