d.U.S.t
Run me under your fingers
You’ll see that I am dust
I am clay
Just as old men say
I am the dirt beneath your nails
The stubborn, sticky kind
That hides in the corners
Clinging to your warmth
You are stubborn too
You scrape at the edges
Until I give in
I release my grip to reveal what I am
You press me between your hands
Twist me through your lines and circles
I disappear and melt into you
You at once appear as me
We are the same dust, darling
Just drifted in on a different day
We're made of the same clay
Molded on a child’s whim, set out to dream and play
Thank you, for sharing that, Leysa,
Dare I say that there is good and bad poetry, without having to draw the exact line that sits between the twain which never meet? Sorry, I didn't mean to get so poetical-ish there. It might be more positive for me to say that sometimes a work of art resonates and sometimes it doesn't. So many influences are relevant, but to be able to see in the mind's eye, what the writer, or composer, is attempting to portray or communicate, is the essence of a good, or reciprocally resonating, piece of artwork.
Beautiful.
So nice, thank you. :,)