Ye who plant the seed shall burden the responsibilities
of the fruit; yet I suffer the toil of a heart long laden of dirt.
Grown useless, gnarled, I twist now under the rising gale of wind;
you are a storm that shall never crest.
How I crave for my roots to be severed,
transplanted
to a garden of lush greens
yet I wither,
longing for vine ripened spices – a spot of sunshine
I could never quite feel.
© Copyright 2014 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.
Advertisements
The intensity and depth of longing are easily soul stirring. Very well done!
Thank you!
You, my friend, are deeper than the Bigfoot mystery. 🙂
lol I try, my friend, I try 😉
Beautifully spine-tingling!
– Kim
Thank you, Kim!! If you follow my poetry, you know my emotions run the gamut! 😉