On the twig of a tree,
at the top of it's tallness,
by the vein of a leaf,
lies one simple thought.
With the gust of wind,
and the sway of the branch,
the leaf is sent flying,
the thought's ripped to shreds.
A piece in the grass,
a piece on a car.
A piece in the road,
one shoots for the stars.
And one remains dangling,
hanging from the twig's stem.
Just one concrete thought
of how much I miss him.
No comments:
Post a Comment