A single field beyond one’s embrace, circling thoughts.
A foreign trail wandering outwards, lost in wave.
It moves with grace, you might say,
But others think, deadly, dark.
Currents cleanse high-strung animosity, tempting the string of light.
A single grant tightens your grasp.
Dimness clashes the spark, a corrupting bouquet
A song of breaths and beats, dances its way
I have no grants, wishes.
Moreover, deadly, dark.
I see this as the contrast between people's perspectives being either optimistic or pessimistic. Where one sees grace, another sees deadly dark.
ReplyDelete