The 12th Of May Poem by Jake Howard
The 12th Of May
A life is a tangled line of thought,
Knocked and battered into shape
By those entangled too.
My father knows not what he did
To me, and her, in those days in that
Flat when I'd bury and hide my face away.
She is a rose, or some other cliché,
Not perfect, but perfect enough,
Given that she's grown out of mud.
And I had her in my trap.
But she emerged:
Pure and beautiful, as before.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/24/2024 7:58:00 AM # 1.0.0.1119
