As an artist, I dream of the perfect word or line
A succulent stimulating taste for the reading mind
That hangs suspended like a sunset in the memory
A written smile remembered from an old time movie.
I saw a flower-covered meadow with my words scattered
Thrown about like wind strewn pedals never to be heard
But she strolled around the field, picking up pieces of flowers
Inspiring controlled thought instead of my gibberish disasters
Gathering strength from love, a kiss pushed on my determination
But her smile melted all my memories of failure and frustration
Words came from discarded letters lying around the mind
A few pieces of broken heart and promises I managed to find
But she is the morning sun warming my mundane day
She is the lost word, lost world, lost verse to say.
But the words are still too short in the grand stature
I can’t free them from her beautiful stare.
Can’t write down that famous memory embedding line
I can only think about her most of the time.
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- Donald
Wayne Robinson
As an artist, I dream of the perfect word or line
A succulent stimulating taste for the reading mind
That hangs suspended like a sunset in the memory
A written smile remembered from an old time movie.
I saw a flower-covered meadow with my words scattered
Thrown about like wind strewn pedals never to be heard
But she strolled around the field, picking up pieces of flowers
Inspiring controlled thought instead of my gibberish disasters
Gathering strength from love, a kiss pushed on my determination
But her smile melted all my memories of failure and frustration
Words came from discarded letters lying around the mind
A few pieces of broken heart and promises I managed to find
But she is the morning sun warming my mundane day
She is the lost word, lost world, lost verse to say.
But the words are still too short in the grand stature
I can’t free them from her beautiful stare.
Can’t write down that famous memory embedding line
I can only think about her most of the time.