Some images, woven through lines of a verse
can trigger a yearning, to just slip away.
While others inspire, filling pockets of need.
Such are the games our emotions will play.
Escape is a beauty of form, that describes
The whiteness, of mid-winters elegant shroud.
Blue skies that refuse to acknowledge the cold,
breathtaking words, that emerge as cloud.
In response, to a soul-weary foretaste of death
soft patter of rain on the frostbitten leaf.
The pot boils with conflicting reasons to care
For all things still green, the season is brief.
All that is broken, worn square on old shoulders,
all moments are fluid, scooped up for a song.
I am the spectator of every encounter.
but often will linger where poems belong.
Roan copyright© 10.8.2012
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem