The pencils come in sharp relief,
cradled in their Shaker box,
lapstrake perfect, the grain glowing in the sun.
You are not normally a creature of details.
Content with the sense of things,
your eyes sweep a room, never landing, never focused.
Your world is Monet, in darker tones, the details smothered
in swaths of paint and emotion,
the truth emergent instead of clear and sharp.
But not today. Today your eyes soak in details like a starving man,
feverish and tired beyond words, you see a world you somehow missed,
and the world you know, is lost.
About this poem
No explanations. The poem just came. A BYOM (Bring Your Own Meaning) poem.