She is a saint of cement,
All sharp edges and concrete,
Smooth lines and waves of heat.
Her home was close to mine,
Her heart was next to mine,
Our fingers intertwined
Long ago.
She is still a saint of cement,
Cracked and cold beneath our feet,
Nature pushing up from beneath.
With construction she is smoothing,
Her ruggedness so soothing
To me,
And when the time comes to say goodbye
My saint will not cry
Anymore
They both end in why
and love~<3
I like writing poetry. Not all of it is going to be a historical epic or an ode to something. These are like little glimpses of the subway in my mind; my train of thought isn't always artsy or symbolic or deep or meaningful, but I like to think that art takes ordinary things and makes people see a sort of beauty in them. So, look around- I've been doing this for a while. Enjoy ♥
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