Untitled No. 12

He is racing rain on Thursday afternoons and

a blistering headache after hearing the thundering

noise of hearts breaking.

He is the eye of a storm and all the destruction

that surrounds him.

He is a heat wave in September and

a snowstorm in January in a matter

of moments.

He is the aches of an old house and

the untold stories of its walls.

He is not the graceful front door but

rather the intricate porch that is

constantly walked over and

undervalued.

He is not the constellation but

the stars that make it shine.

He is a collection of dusty classics on

a day when the light from the sun

warms the coldest point in your body.

He is the warmth of a good time and

he is someone to tell your children about.

(M.S.)

Reviews

[max_vonnegut]

This is some good stuff!! Your prose is so darn excellent. This poem flows so smooth, I wish I could have written this, its so good. Great job!

[Wuji]

I liked this a lot, it had a sweet cadence and some brushstrokes of surrealism for me.

It's like wandering in the unexpected via totally routine routes.

[Maddi Snowden]

Thank you!