It's Him

A wooden spoon;

how it hangs upon the wall.

It has no passion,

yet the user finds less at fault.

 

 

I wish for that awkwardness,

for strings tied in bows

for no more a reason

then that spoon upon the wall.

 

 

We find it beautiful.

It's a steady ease to eyes

so tired of waiting

for more to catch a light

 

 

Like foreign birds drinking in the lake,

their song of homesick made.

And all we find,

is beauty, yes,

we care not more,

for what might make all the others ail.

 

 

I won't tell him if you will...