Friday, February 21, 2014

Potential

My teacher says that when you break a cup
it's best to think of it as having been
a broken thing before you picked it up.
Illusory, the wholeness it was in.

Beneath the metal's sheen was always rust;
the dream was dead the moment it was born.
The stars were never more than colored dust,
my feelings for you never more than torn.

It hits me as I see that you are calling:
you see rose where I see petals falling

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