Thursday, April 30, 2009

Bower

I wove garlands
of fictions
fancies, fantasies
perfumed fragrances
that gave delight
keeping me happy
and cosy.
I did not want grim reality
its stark, naked truths
staring me in the face.
My garland is my bower
it's a lovely purple and green.

All the same, you have yours too
Only, maybe your garland is blue.

1 comment:

anj said...

the last four lines redeem the poem, making it special, and are almost enough by themselves.