Poem

A four line stanza
Made of words strung
Together to form
Mazes twisted in windfall structures.

Have you ever seen the trees, change and die, in time with a drying eye, Brown eyes shifting sweetly between dusk & dawn.

Pinecone barbs spoken upon tainted lilac tongues, straight edged against snow white teeth.
Pink tipped lips molding to each downy skinned aggression.

Iron crusted bones smoothed upon rust laid train tracks. Tunnels dug hollow deep rushing against translucent skin.
Brick backs curving around watered ways caressing bare tipped stone edges.

Be a poem they say, yet when spoken beauty becomes metaphors, hidden between the  line stanzas of haikus speaking quickly of lips & tits.

Be a poem yet hidden amongst ballads of hair like waterfalls becomes a sonnet of eyebrows carved into a snow white mask, shading liquid gold eyes.

Be a poem is to be analyzed time & time again by blind eyes behind ignorant lies. To be interpreted by mindful theorist attuned to rhythmic structures layered aganist hypothetical images.

Yet to be gazed upon time & time again holds ethereal meaning worn clear with memories synchronized with countless minds yet each one contradicting the essences of poetry is to be poetry.

© SaraM