The prettiest things I see
is not blissful endings in tv
Bed of roses that mold fresh clay of minds
into make-believe
Not brave, handsome masks
that put up a bold display
Winning accolades, swooning honour
But the gentle hands that cradle
the cry from featherbeds
Solace that speaks silence in volume to
tear of a tear
The touch that patches up wallpapers
down teary memory hallway
A beat of the heart that pounds
courage to fragile skins
The swiftness of grace that loosens
the grip on furnace's trigger
A warm hug from the love
that promises strength in weakness
The sweet, obscure trail of legacy
left by people who called themselves ordinary.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
super nice!
The swiftness of grace that loosens
the grip on furnace's trigger - means those people who preach to bring other ppl back from hell's grip
always felt that something is missing when i read this poem.. =/
Post a Comment