03 April 2013

Like Dust

I pity your dull brain
And your precious things,
All for touching.

The acute sensitivity
Of your fingertips.
The aroma of wine
Breathed over your tongue.

The special place in your tin heart
For a purse
Full of soft gold.

Your words
That sound like dust
And scatter in the wind.

Nothing Special. Day number 3.

1 comment:

  1. Poems are blooming in mass quantity ~ everywhere! So glad I stopped to read .. very nice.