With his chin resting on his breast
Like a bird contemplating flight
The dancer poised to take the next step
Across the vast shining forest beneath her.
The sailor who raises his hand
And salutes the wind
These, and many others, comprise
This world of ours.
So wide, large, brimming
So colourful, gleeful, fleeting
Infinite possibilities
Unfolding, unrolling, fluttering like a sail
A bolt of fabric, a leaf, the tailcoats of a dancer
A swallow's fresh wings
In with the new, out with the old
In with the old, out with the new
Just another experimental poem. It doesn't feel like it ticks to me. Oh well. Keep trying, I suppose! Poetry is so difficult, because a large part of it is how it is read.
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