To someone else
Dried flowers may seem better
Than a collection of random
Literary extracts.
An extract of honey perfume
May smell more welcoming
Than the crisp paper pages
My fingers hold.
A diamond ring that flashes
With every change of light
May bedazzle more brilliantly
Than the next metaphor listed.
In fact the next hidden meaning
Of this delicate language
May just go unnoticed
As clouds spiral day by day,
Making curtains in the air.
Such curtain, only of lies,
Would then feel softer
Than the quiet melody
Of missing voices
In the beryl skies.
And the sweet music that vibrates
Daily instead
Would sound better
Than the flawless flow
Of words voiced with strong soul
To someone else.
But never am I
This someone else.