I am captured here <br />behind velvet walls, <br />winging birds outside the window. <br /> <br />Time is my bunk-mate; <br />Gentle Regrets <br />sweeten my tea: <br />the passon fruit has decayed <br />and yet <br />I make of this an odd contentment; <br />even Lonliness can be a friend <br />if you have no other; <br /> <br />I made of this my strange concoction <br />which grows upon you such <br />that its deficiences <br />can seem in time strangely beautiful; <br />but this, too, is the lonliness of knowing <br />no one can understand <br />this odd beauty <br />but I. <br /> <br />So I smooth the table cloth <br />and dust the furniture <br />watch the dust motes fly <br />glittering momentarily; <br />the sun behind <br /> <br />illuminating them; <br />creating the illusion <br />that dust flying <br />is a star. <br /> <br />And each one is I <br />fluttering ever so gently <br />to the inevitable ground <br />but retrieved every now and again <br />by gentle <br />household breezes <br />which I stir <br />to save them.<br /><br />Lonnie Hicks<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sunshine-and-dust-motes/
