My words became spells again,
my words they wove their magic,
the images proved so sincere,
yet tired they became,
the end:
so tragic.
I sewed the moments one by one,
delved in and out the topics,
recreated potency handfuls by handfuls,
the result:
confusion of moments.
The truth of the matter is
perhaps the words were not right,
misinterpretations outdoors
flew high into the sky.
Anomalies present from whatever one might
want to know,
lay your head upon that grass,
rest there gently,
I’ll watch the subtle growth.
Time can tell certain things,
many different things,
nearby blossoms absorb the moments
in which they breathe the sounds
with ease.
They take on the subtle intricacies,
borne as silent witnesses,
voices raised in dire frustration,
won’t the scents calm them
along the breeze?
But will they be subdued,
relax themselves?
Unravel the tapestry,
work it all out?
I think those others eavesdropping can
quite obviously tell.
My words once were magic,
to others they became spells again,
I wove them,
and I weave them,
and I let others carefully attend to them.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash
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Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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