Waxing poetic

It's raw and it didn't flow out of me, probably because I haven't written poetry in far too long, so it reads like a slam piece, uneven, bumpy and stretched in places. I trust you to figure it out.



And the morning came
and he was tired just the same.
He looked around the world
with the same blurry, bleary, world-weary eyes.

Soothing same sounds soothe but not the same.

And the sky was gray
and it threatened as he walked.
It cooled throughout his soul
with the same dampness seen on the ground.

Standing still softens the soul, but moreso the sole.

It was Friday the thirteenth
and he'd decided it'd be lucky.
It provided a dull warmth as he sat
with the same blank smile he often had.

So say something sweet, but sincere.

The heart he'd found was hot and soft
and she was strong enough to work past the scars.
She filled his thoughts intentional or not
with the past, present tense and future perfect.

Striations show juxtaposing sunny and shady.

It was a time to move out of heavy darkness
and into the light of the world.
They were as unsure as ever were two
with still the confidence of one and one to make one again.