It Is Not
It is not of this mind that writes
of freshness in the breeze
where the new day floats
with the greatest of ease
It is not a deduction or calculation
that bring forth the butterfly
her flutters and faith
in an endless new sky
It is not from skill or from death
that one dies so one can live
flowers blooming out of the darkness
so new found angels can give
Heartstrings played on with her concerto
peace has performed there too
a smile gleamed from harmony
as notes pass from me to you
It is the pound of the chest that breathes
beats that are skipped in your awe
the calls of the night to embrace
in every beautiful thing I saw
Copyright © Tim Smith | Year Posted 2017
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