The COVID-19 pandemic stirred something within. While trying to find solace in words, some poems found me.
I stare at the wall and
read between the shadows.
Heaps of secrets hidden in there
of the mountains and the meadows.
Tall trees are my friends,
I have chats with the leaves.
They tell me all the stories
that my heart sure believes.
The sun shows them wonders
of the lands far far away
The wind brings them tales
back from his gusty holiday
A stray ray once asked me,
'you staying here or coming?'
I wasn't sure if I was ready to miss
my blanky and late-night humming.
Now reading my own wild dreams
in some greens and these greys.
I sprint through the lakes and forests,
catching all the summer haze.
I read the map on the wall and
pack a backpack full of snacc
then this tall boi comes running
to give me kissies and bum-smacc.
My home is an adventure in itself. ❤️
What we desire so deeply
remains at an arms distance
We want it with all we've got
and it always tests our patience
Achilles kept running super fast
hoping soon he'd be with that shell
The tortoise slipped ahead every time
with yet another warning bell
Frustrated but hopeful
the dreamer held his head tall
An achilles, like the spider,
kept climbing that meta-wall
They could've shared their lives, you know,
joys and sorrows and everything.
It seems a little odd to me,
making someone run for nothing.
If even achilise couldn't keep up
with a tortoise profoundly slow,
How are we to write our fairy-tale
starting with that 'a long time ago'
Thinking of this distance and ours
I suddenly realise the key issue
The tortoise would've turned around
if he had heard that unsaid 'I miss you'.
.
So, here you go. I miss you. Stay safe. ❤️
He sat down to write,
Write a poem about hope
But the light and the lines
felt like things beyond his scope
He really began to think,
think about the purpose of a limit
The countless doubts told him
that it was better to just leave it
Doubts encouraged second-guessing,
second-guessing the merit of certainty
Are we ever sure about anything?
Nothing's ever perfect, all a bit faulty
He looked at the world and stared,
stared at the sea of imperfection
They tell you to see beauty in this,
how did they land on that conclusion?
Cool brezze brought him back,
back to the value of one belief,
The one he often leaned on,
'Nothing ever ends in grief'
He sat down, again, to write,
write a poem about hope
Something certainly imperfect,
limitless, beyond (micro and tele) scope
He put his pen to paper,
a paper blank and ready
The lines then swayed together,
bringing light, slow and steady.
Stay hopeful kids. Stay safe. ❤️
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