Poem Seeking Reader
Tired of red roses
and blue violets
If you expect me to compare myself
to a Summer's day, or you feel
that love is in the air, than I am not
the poem for you.
I am humidity and airborne Ebola.
I am rhythm without rhyme,
and the stolen fire of insight.
With me, you will finally understand why
a flower is lonely, and why you lie restless
beneath the moon.
I will not be your Russian nesting doll
for I will never lose myself in you,
though you may in me.
Tired of red roses
and blue violets
If you expect me to compare myself
to a Summer's day, or you feel
that love is in the air, than I am not
the poem for you.
I am humidity and airborne Ebola.
I am rhythm without rhyme,
and the stolen fire of insight.
With me, you will finally understand why
a flower is lonely, and why you lie restless
beneath the moon.
I will not be your Russian nesting doll
for I will never lose myself in you,
though you may in me.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson