Dust Motes

A Poem By Tamerah // 7/15/2011

Tracing lines across the sky,
in every language that we know
we sing songs with silent words,
caught in the clouds and hanging low.
On the feathered wings of birds
carried aloft and swept afar,
some faint trace we thought we heard
through some door we’d left ajar.

Why not weave on through the woods
where the dark begins to gather?
We could scatter light behind us,
or set the trees afire if you’d rather.
Carrying the tiniest motes of dust
in our pockets to save for later,
we never cared to cause a fuss
but the forest’s too far gone to save her.


 Very pretty :)

 Very pretty :)

Laura Elizabeth | Sat, 07/16/2011

The best stories are those that are focused, unassuming, and self-confident enough to trust the reader to figure things out. --


This was beautifully

This was beautifully mysterious and mysteriously beautiful, Tamerah. I wish I had this set to music!

Mary | Sat, 07/16/2011

Brother: Your character should drive a motorcycle.
Me: He can't. He's in the wilderness.
Brother: Then make it a four-wheel-drive motorcycle!

Lovely, lovely, lovely.

Lovely, lovely, lovely.

E | Sat, 07/16/2011

"You were not meant to fit into a shallow box built by someone else." -J. Raymond

I love the second stanza

I love the second stanza more, not sure why.

Anna | Mon, 07/18/2011

I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right. --The Book Thief


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