Day 9 - poemThe Flower On A HillDay 9 - poem1 day ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
Dull green blades sliced vertically,
by the blinding saturation of a Lilly.
Lulled prestine, faded high upon,
nigh infatuation? No, beginnings far from gone.
The seasons bring the warm rays,
or the chill of a sailing gust.
The tears of a pleasant shower,
Or the frigid snow of tarried lust.
The hill just sitting high so timidly,
remains as calm and joyful always.
The thrill of bearing it's meager jewel
to all it longs one day.
Torn away by wind usunder, it flies
away from all the days.
The clouds they settle, thorn and
metal, take now, the hill by storm.
Blades dry up, to amber lumps
of grub and filth now torn.
Stepped on and used,
the battered lump continues still to be.
Left gone and bruised with nay a stump
or shrews even to see.
Another season comes and goes,
a rose happens to fall, upon the hill of filth and shame,
though faded, rose gives call.
The hill begins to hold the rose,
and cradle it so gently.
Absorbed in it, the hill to fall,
and re-arrange for plent