Poetry of a Conlanger

Tuesday, September 13, 2005


I had hoped.

It wasn't much and it wan't the same,
but it was there-
glimmering, budding, somehow springing up
during the
dead, cold wasteland
of winter.

It wasn't the old flower, and I was glad.

It was a dandilion, a weed of the soul-
Nay, a weed of the heart.

Just a weed.
No more,
No less.
Was it less?

And with but an exhale of regret
-mist clouding my vision-
I leaned down, eyes wide,
and plucked the weed.

I had hoped.
Was it less?


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