A Precious Waste of Time

We lost ourselves
in the madness
of the Universe,
always
showing our teeth,
grit and all.
We found this
precious waste
of
time in each
other,
like a soft day
glistening
in
its
own perfection.
We found
ourselves
nestled
in between the notes,
like
we always
do,
but this time
without
the chromatic
tones
or the simple
shapes
that often define
us.
See,
we are all
that
the Universe
requires,
and
our waste of
time
just
gave us
the beauty
that
we
truly are.

M.C. Davis

That, That, and the Third

See,
the sun never
disappears
completely,
as
the memory
of
her beautiful
sting
resonates like
stars
do
during their
courting phase,
When this
shift change
happens
between day and night,
we
find our
true
love staring back
at
us.
See,
poets don’t
get
the chance to smooth
out
these
words,
like this,
that, and the
third.
We only
get
to borrow
them
for
the
moment
that the sun
allows
it.

M.C. Davis

 

 

 

A Rose Remembered

A rose
simply remembered
doesn’t
quite intend
well.
She’s not fragile,
nor
do her petals
dictate
to the sun.
She exists
within
the notes
of every concerto,
but
also
she carries
the
notes in between
that
often
begin
with a whisper.
See, a rose
remembered
is
never
simply
remembered, as
she
is created.
A rose
remembered
only knows of
itself
in
this way.

M.C. Davis