Monday, 30 March 2009
09:43:08 PM (GMT)
You Can't Write A Poem about Roses
Mid-Afternoon. The Summer heat dissolves
within the storm of the shade
caused by buildings.
I walk on the sidewalk, listening to the
sounds of birds churping overhead, children
laughing, and fire hydraights explode the water
Step by step, the group splashes me with cool
air. I pass by a garbage can, erupting like a
volcano. I notice right next to it, a little
red star shinning in the pile of garbage.
It's color was as bright as the sun.
It's petals as soft as skin.
My face lights up in happiness, as I
start Walking again.
I'm glad I live somewhere where nature
beautifies the ugliest of things.