I wander if Autumn ever gets scared,
Knowing it will soon
Loose it’s splendor
In submission to the changing
Breathe of Winter,
Or if it welcomes it with open arms,
In surrender of the change,
Knowing that it’s time has passed
And that it must move on,
Delivering itself to the desolate
Wonder that lies ahead.
Or if it sighs not wanting to give in
To the beauty that it knows is waiting,
Because it would mean losing
Photo Credit: isiltasuna Flickr via Compfight cc
I want to be poetic,
Not in the sense that I want to
I want to sit by a fog filled window,
With a cup of coffee,
Staring out into the rainy afternoon
Or the morning sunrise.
Not moving nor doing anything
Breathing quietly as if I did so any
Louder I would wake the world
From its eternal slumber.
sipping the hot liquid wrapped
Around my finger tips,
Watching the world as if it almost
Refuses to exist,
As if I am not my own,
As if I am looking at me from
The outside in,
Like a little piece of poetry.