He's got a big heart,
one to hold all his mistakes.
He's got the hands of a sower, not a mender.
He was unable to mend back the disheveled puzzles she left for him,
in her wake dust particles mocked his efforts.
He'd look to nature, as if the clouds didn't hold ice,
as if flames were meant to dance.
The perplexity of it all, is that he'd still hold onto butterflies with bleeding fingers.
Pollen grins would graze his skin, while he sought their warmth.
Barry me in a seethe of your lilies, kind tree,
wrought with honey roots.
In his minds delight , he found her in the limelight,
seeking refuge in the rain.
He ran through the acidity to find a calamity in his heart.
Barry me in the drapery of your words, kind rose,
let your petals suffocate me.
He seek-ed approval from the glass lake,
where the wisps of dandelions would glide merrily,
to only be cut.
To have one moment with the winded girl,
to have a whirlwind of a time.
Twisting torsos to dance with agility,
to only be bent my words.
He fell through the glass-lake,
obtained transparent scars.
He had one mirror image in mind,
If only he looked at his reflection.
To notice the dandelion dimpling his cheek.