Polly pocket in the palm of my hand –
Perching
Not a moth summoned by my Flame,
More like a sprite,
A faery delight.

Free-flight
Through wordless symbolism
A captivating prism,
Her eyes.

Writing with disappearing ink,
I can’t remember the crossroads of my thoughts.

The pen doesn’t keep up
Quick enough.

The curves follow the motion
With steady devotion
This is the potion –
Solid inspiration.

The absence of scenery
From too much greenery.

Echoes that only I know.

We live in self-planted gardens,
And we ripen at our own speed.

Transfixed; uprooted.

All content contains words,
The curtain is no longer drawn.

Indulge in a yawn…

08/04/2006

Posted on 12/21/2006
Copyright © 2025 Bethany Lee