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



 
 

All Pages Copyright 2005
www.alittlepoetry.com
All Rights Reserved

All poems owned by individual author and should not be reproduced without permision.