A glass tree hangs above me,
see-through, still and strong.
A hundred perfect, brittle branches,
float,
suspended,
long and lonely,
only inches
from the ground.
They waver slightly, caught
by currents. Cool air through a hula skirt.
Far too clear to ever handle.
Much too clean to touch the dirt.
Frozen, in its rigid beauty.
Wistful, willow, of
crystal tears.
Formed in fire, now
long forgotten.
Left to
reflect
a former light.
An echo, carried
through the years.
1 comment:
I know I said I was gonna try to be brutally honest and come up with something bad to say but I honestly can't - I know you probably won't believe this from anyone so I'm sure you won't from me but seriously dude - you have a real gift - sorry for overuse of the word dude too but... dude! I may be forced to steal:
Wistful, willow, of
crystal tears.
next time i have to teach some brats assonance and alliteration too. keep writing!
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