Work Text:
April-blue rain, a watercolor in the late
afternoon, tapping to the rhythm of spring.
The golden sunlight enters my window
weeping through emerald leaves.
A rainbow, broken by the curtain lace,
trembles on my kitchen floor.
I hold the strength of a withered flower,
my pained face painted in a cold indifference.
I, a poet of no importance, continue to
write my dull dreams and ornate phrases.
Who am I writing to?
Who am I living for?
Forget-me-nots, blossoming in the
empty garden of my chest,
escape from my lips.
I am at a loss for words.