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Literature Text
I can use all of the words I want
But I'm wasting time
For anything that I write down
About the barren woods this evening
Will come out wrong
It's not a graveyard of gnarled black fingers clutching at the sky
It's not a shadowed land of moss and secrets in the hollow
It's not something primordial
Or precious
On a busy night, passing by,
All that comes to mind is the reality:
A field of matchsticks-in-the-making, done for the year.
But I'm wasting time
For anything that I write down
About the barren woods this evening
Will come out wrong
It's not a graveyard of gnarled black fingers clutching at the sky
It's not a shadowed land of moss and secrets in the hollow
It's not something primordial
Or precious
On a busy night, passing by,
All that comes to mind is the reality:
A field of matchsticks-in-the-making, done for the year.
You know the feeling when it's a beautiful autumn evening, and you walk by a scene that would be the perfect inspiration for a poem... and nothing happens? Yeah. So do I.
© 2013 - 2024 LadyBethsheba
Comments7
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I know that feeling so well. 
This was beautiful, though! I especially love the last line: "A field of matchsticks-in-the-making, done for the year." It really settles me into the scene, whereas the other two stanzas set me into the feeling...if that makes any sense.
Actually, the more I reread this, the more I love it.
Seriously, this is quite well done.
This was beautiful, though! I especially love the last line: "A field of matchsticks-in-the-making, done for the year." It really settles me into the scene, whereas the other two stanzas set me into the feeling...if that makes any sense.
Actually, the more I reread this, the more I love it.
Seriously, this is quite well done.