My heart is a caged tiger
rattling the bars
My heart is a feather
floating this way and that
My heart is a sunbeam
blinding on the road
My heart is an empty bottle
My heart is the wine in my stomach
My heart is a beetle
desparate on his back
My heart is a wolf chasing
a rabbit
My heart is the rabbit also
My heart is the milk of the moon
slowly churning
My heart is an acorn
misplaced
Many more secret things I call my heart
because her kiss is fresh in the morning
but dry in the evening.
January 12, 2009 at 10:23 am
“…her kiss is fresh in the morning/but dry in the evening”
That’s great!
January 23, 2009 at 9:40 pm
Hi Matt,
I quite like this poem. It kinda makes me wish I could write poetry too. Then again, I’m not sure that I can’t because I’ve never really tried. Eh, I’m pretty sure I can’t.
Novak and I miss you a lot. Take care. -K