Gord

2024-09-19 08:15 am

If fights ensue,
It's not of me, delights, or truth,
So why stand beneath?
At least in my mind the blue is me.

What of peacocks in the spring?
What of cheese in the crumbles?
What of resolve and my shivering?
Certainly, I can feel these things.
It's not beneath me,
Like red sees croplands,
Like rubber and tarmac.

Like green sees the sea: blue. 
Ironically, foolish for free verse. 
Traverse the world, but ask me, 
Just remove lines, write peace.

Irish flute, life renews,
Fights needs two,
Then favour winning,
Like red says to greens. 

I wish inside, though, blue remains.
Enticing eyes, confusing wings,
Flying, seems a bit childish to me,
As does to peacocks in the spring.