deepundergroundpoetry.com

Dragonfly

what is it that you cannot touch,    
that we have found divine, and made pretty      
by chiseled scars and auburn pain,      
in honor, precedence to new ages,  
  
they will not pass slowly, nor weep in vain,    
for if the dragonfly told secrets to Saturn,      
the precious moments, and all the tea cups,      
would shatter to the ground in silence.
Written by Pishashee
Published
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