poetry

Imperfect

Remember when we found that imperfect spot by the trees;

with the hive of bees?

Immature happy to be away from the crowd;

they are way too loud.

Warped were we; thinking crowds missed our plans.

Looking sketchy, holding hands.

Intimate plans turned to dud,

little brother threw a rock with a thud!

Angry bees shamed us away, their secrets for birds alone.

That imperfect spot by the trees, began a love still known.

©2017 E. R. Smith

 

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