Insomnia

It was still dark.
I stepped
around the stones
until the fragrance of
petunias called
and rose
caressing,
to seduce
the one who found
no peace or beauty,
shrugging off the sound
of strange, exotic birds,
it must be me,
his inner voice had said,
who frowns
and listens to the dead,
and not the bumblebee.
.

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COMMENTS OF THE POEM

same as I said a minute ago... tis a wonder sometimes that some poets sleep at all is it not! ! ! but the insomnia apparently also takes thought to more creative places.. lucky for me I reckon though I have not experienced insomnia.. oh joy no doubt someting to look forward to.. Dxx

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Brandon Brooks 28 April 2008

weird but i like it. very creative

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