• The blackened hands dance before my sight,
    Ghostly images of lonely trees in a stormy light.
    Plastic rainbows prance across my page,
    Unconcerned by Mother Natures rage.
    The others don't seem to mind,
    Thoughts focused on fears of another kind.
    But I am not one like them,
    I am a flower on a wilted stem.
    The beauty of the earth calls to me,
    Enlisting tears of futility.
    For I am not one with so keen an eye,
    As to justly capture the ever changing sky.
    Ardently admire and watch though I may,
    All sincere expressions come in overtones of grey.
    If only they could feel my heart as I look upon a frightened bloom,
    Then perhaps they to could hear the melodies of noon.
    But they hear nothing but the chiming of the bell,
    And their hearts feel nothing of the beating of the swell.
    I try to imagine that beauteous day,
    When all of mankind sees the same way.
    Too far in the future to be dwelt upon,
    By the time it comes round I'll long be gone.
    But still, I'm sure, the winds will rage,
    And waters will gather in their heavenly cage.
    As a lone magpie sits in contemplative sorrow,
    And tired young minds dream of tomorrow.