abroad

I have sowed the hours of my life
into this hand 
for it.

I have dreamt of it in sonnets
and in prayers
that acquiesce onto its ears.
into the flowers that have grown inside its room
and into the miles it will travel.

if it may wither and I should not,
let me spend my days still
in a pen, or a key 
with a gentle touch
that speaks of its beauty.

yet,

I have grasped at the air 
and nothing came about.

I have breathed into the darkness 
and nothing came about.

I have withdrew into a picture
and nothing came about.

yet out of this,

you.

feedback 1https://old.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8yeto7/on_the_anniversary_the_bad_one/

2https://old.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8wmbf1/riesling/