return to poetrydust
Untitled
(incomplete)
That poor girl
From here already I can see
How the gray dulls her skin.
Evidence of the loving she gets
Or rather, lack of it
I can hear her mind speak to me
Asking how I'm not as dusty.
Her pleads for pleasure are as fresh as ever:
"How do you get people to smile at you?
Is it as every bit as fun as I've imagined
Is it worth all my idle daydreams on the windowsill?
"Tell me the beauty of the world,
Do the roses in the garden feel as beautiful as they look?
For I ache to touch it, I've only seen it
With my fingers pressed against paned glass."
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Note: I was never able to finish this poem. I know it's not finished, I just don't know what to do about it.