I went looking for company
and found eyes peering out from nature.
I went looking for gold
and found it floating on the water.
I went looking for drama
and found it pouring from the sun.
I went looking for rhythm
and found it pulsing from a critter.
In no other spot would I rather
sit and write
a poem.
My reflections are moving in nearer as I stand here in my house of mirrors. Some are chipped, some need dusting. Some are polished to a shine, crystal-clear. Some are obvious, some are deceiving. But
The gift of poetry. The most beautiful things can only be described through vagueness and metaphor; abstractly, we are like flies to the fire, not in the sense that we die when we hit true beauty but