If This Were A Song
If this were a song written without frontiers, in a season of nothingness, past picket fences bent like bows, past weathered houses and a penetrating sunlight that bleaches the grasses gold, it would be called: loneliness. If this were a poem with strong bones and the heart of a maple leaf, not technically, but close, this is, afterall, a poem, which may or may not carry a message, it would be called: imaginary sadness. If this were a painting or a photograph with small hands and slender limbs, with pain always in the next room, and endless ways of hurting itself, it would be called: gentle longing or cascading madness. Perhaps, chronic devotion, or love, that hypocrite. © Lisa Zaran
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