Nothing is too late, as Longfellow once said,
it is imperative, that one believes this.
Somewhat as sugar,
that carries symphonies of sensory idealism
in granules and bits,
fortunately, some new findings, for me
were getting close to turning the world on its head.
Poets expound on peaches and theories alike,
it’s a practice
that has been going on for decades,
we write of life, of desperation and ache
though love proves as a detour that one slips in
from time to time,
I cannot help thinking that vision gets clouded
by soft vellus on a date’s arm–
how is it that lies are hiding there
within the tissue of desire?
I have been told to coat evenly; to bake intention
in a pre-heated oven
in order to elude the devil, devastatingly fine
I should have listened as I walked into an argument,
as cobbler falls apart
due to erroneous estimation,
no really, ripe fruit can make more puddles than
and the same goes for uncertain relationships.
It’s best to relie on truth and cornstarch.
These gourmands, if pale, are the drip of the tree;
for they are afraid of grasps,
and long to be free–
here I am, less than a minute or so later
poetizing heartache with a truth that sears–
crimson-orange on a moldy slice of bread.
I wonder, if human beings have it in them to truly
learn from their mistakes.
Oh look; the sun is out today.
Picture courtesy: Pinterest
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