Fresh and Rosy Fingered Flowers
Incantations, the flesh devours
The time the place we claim they’re ours
As fresh and rosy fingered flowers
Bloom in and out of season.
How is it we can feel so alone
Surrounded by all and sundry?
How is it we can see real a love
Without ever having tried?
How can we be expected to tell the truth
When all we’re ever was lies?
How am I to acquire he truth at all
If they won’t allow me to kiss the sky?
poem by David Lacey
Added by Poetry Lover
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