Thursday, March 26, 2009

The Olive Branch

Fingers grasping and grasping,
At things never seen.
Clutching and yearning,
For space in between.

As light as a feather,
And as stiff as a board.
These are the things,
We no longer afford.

Our youthful days of playing,
Have long gone past.
But our imaginations still fly,
At full mast.

So draw up the ink
And bring forth the quill
And let the creativity,
from your mind, spill

Onto the pages of books long scorned,
In boxes of rooms,
forgotten and unadorned.

Isn't it funny?
How it was meant to be?
You find this,
A slight trace of me?

Now close this window
and come over to me....
We can have crumpets and coffee
....or tea.

We can waste the night,
Discussing philosophy.
From foreign lands,
We never had the chance to see.

But first you must shut this window
And extend the olive branch
Of poetic discussion,
To the likes of me

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