Can you not see your own value, your worth?
Your heart beating despite the cold of day?
Your soul burning away bitter for North?
Bright eyes eager for something more…waiting.
The heart richer than gold; thy crystal core.
Beauty: not but a word, but a feeling.
Thy soul brighter than the break of sun or
the moon in all its wondrous gleaming.
Thy brokenness too hard to hide inside.
Your heavy soul aching…swollen…way sore.
Flaws beyond repair, beauty inspired:
Fierce can’t be controlled…Love can’t ignore.
From thy endless love, all virtue doth flow.
When will you see all the value I know?
How wanting sense are they who do not read,
inept to think analytically.
Their imagination, they will not feed.
Left to simplicity, basically.
You, who do not read books, are bumbling sheep;
lacking a guide, you wander lost.
Without a shepherd, you hear that dread steep.
If you neglect to read, this is the cost.
But, Friend, rejoice! You can repent your ways!
A broad vocab and intellect you’ll gain.
Decide which way you wish to spend your days.
Please! For my sake, do exercise your brain!
So, read. Take the chance, make the change, be new.
My friend: imagination waits for you.
The illumination of the sunshine,
the time that I should have spent
sitting, thinking: the last days doing time.
Because of corruption, my thoughts are bent.
Never thought I would long for winter’s day.
As the rest, the time elapses so swiftly.
Leaves on trees are so close, yet far away.
‘fore I wake, tomorrow is here crisply.
Sitting in my cell, I cannot reflect.
All these year have been wasted all away.
All my demons oppress; I lost the bet.
Staring through my window, this is the day.
Finally, I can feel the wind and grass.
It is now time to put down the old flask.
Winter’s beauty is as a frosted peak,
a frozen lake: its depths never to reach.
Light bouncing off of filed in golden streaks.
Slushy water flows o’er a stony beach.
And also children skating on a rink.
Winter’s happy beauty seen in a smile.
While treading through the drifts, our snowshoes sink.
The joys of snow, with snowflakes in a pile,
but sometime beauty’s shinning is too bright,
and blinds the looker to what is inside.
When opened, there is seen to be no light,
and beneath the skin, it looks to have died.
Winter is not always as it would seem,
though – sometimes – there’s a bright and shining gleam.