every day there comes a certain time
that sturdies its reigns on the scene granted it.
time holds still, space lies dormant
and the witness finds their elysium.
a dormant and aromatic flame waving the room about gently
as the window hints at trees swaying in the night breeze.
this leaves the mind to wander
about the day it has just been
and the day that it will be.
isn't it strange how in order to truly introspect
we deprive our senses of their very task?
we shut the lights
turn off the music
it's terribly ironic how we let our physical state
negate that of our inner turmoil.
is it we?
or just me?
YOU ARE READING
poems, pt. 1
Poetrya collection of 6 poems dedicated to humanity and its understanding of itself.
