Author | Hayden Baggett
I'm stumped on a bench that's
A little too minimalist for my taste,
Searching for provocation.
Seeing the heights of a post-modern stack
And counting the bricks of its Georgian predecessor,
I wonder if the figures compare to the
Number of times you've crossed my mind.
Surrounding windows are reminiscent of
The perceptual doors rendered by
Your intangible beauty
- A composition of grace and touch,
Martyred by droves of love, thought, and
The fleeting impulse for effectual distance -
When I look into your eyes,
The sensation of being lost falls upon me
Because they bear a static impression
Of God's contented will.
The geometric floor and wayward pedestrians
Coalesce to form a final insight of friction,
Wherein the disposition of your subtle smile
Is held to the light of day.
It kills with the weight it carries,
And captivates me with words and
The disciplined absence of such
- Espousing only proverb, whether
By thought or by silence -
To these ends, my heart takes up
A coarse subversion of human sin.
About the Author | Born in 1998. Hayden Baggett always fails to read between the lines.