09-30-2014, 10:13 AM
Hi, here's a poem I wrote today.
She is like a ripe apple hanging from the bough,
Surreptitiously concealed within the orchard and
Undiscovered. Preliminary notions hold dying fruit,
When bees, coruscating in the summer sun,
Diverge around her, singing their alluring tune
Whose wondrous sound denies the chapel’s prayers,
Lofty and full of passionate weight,
Breathing non-mystery and sense.
The chapel is down the road;
Old and lost, covered in ivy, crumbling walls.
She listens to the praying of the bees.
She dreams of opening a star.
She is like a ripe apple hanging from the bough,
Surreptitiously concealed within the orchard and
Undiscovered. Preliminary notions hold dying fruit,
When bees, coruscating in the summer sun,
Diverge around her, singing their alluring tune
Whose wondrous sound denies the chapel’s prayers,
Lofty and full of passionate weight,
Breathing non-mystery and sense.
The chapel is down the road;
Old and lost, covered in ivy, crumbling walls.
She listens to the praying of the bees.
She dreams of opening a star.
Call me Ben