At the heart of my tapestry, a truth exists -
these lights were a little too dim
to let those lonely threads make a canvas
of every painted road

and so, I traveled,
continued travelling,
and learnt, continued learning, but never gained,
about the precision of loss.

like stained glass,
every line is a stroke of mastery,
conceived out of absence
and loved only by the bare and

sitting in each window,
when all is shaded in quiet,
all but truth is left reflected,
for loss is not truth

it is reality,
uncomfortable, but not definite,
as we remain souls wandering,

where the arms of certainty
will shield
where the eyes of home
will linger

and yet, when I nestle in my frame,
in this view of you,
I see myself lost in the forevers of
rose tinged rivers yearning for the only truth.

one in the mind, one of soft silken promises
that we needn't move,
to feel rather,
just to be.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem