Veronika Bojic

ARCHITECTURE +

If They Only Knew

 

 

What beauty beholds my critical eye?

Definitions so vast, as grand as the sky.

Admiring glances follow her as she walks,

Seeing her float upon jagged rocks.

 

Alluding to a soft, and temperate breeze,

Caressing their bodies with a gentle ease,

But strong gusts can blow in a driven style,

And that tempest she bears is hid by a smile.

 

Her eyes tell her tale, for they lead to the soul,

And what I witness is dark, a thriving black hole.

Yet they twinkle like stars in the evening night,

So lustrous and big, and painfully bright.

 

Her voluminous locks cascade down her back,

And fall like a wave that has yet to attack.

Each hair on her head is spun with pure gold,

A craftsman’s work with secrets untold.

 

She holds her shoulders, proud and square,

And with her tenacious stance, she gives them a glare.

It’s like she’s a cloud, so angelic and free,

That can bring thunder and rain so easily.

 

Still her profile is sweet, like the morning dew,

While I beg and plead that they only knew,

A woman is judged by her outer bark

But it is the honey inside that let the bees leave their mark.

 

For Granted

 

 

Like twinkling stars lighting up the night skies,

Like gentle mothers tending their newborns’ cries.

 

Like passion and love burning a flame of desire,

Like famous figures trying to inspire.

 

Like delicate wings holding up a warm breeze,

Like naïve girls feeling weak at the knees.

 

Like morning dew resting on permeable cells,

Like children laughing at the ringing of bells.

 

Like playful moments pursued in the field,

Like treasured secrets kept bound and sealed.

 

Like billowing clouds molding comforting thoughts,

Like soldiers spread on sickly cots.

 

Like steam dancing within ceramic walls,

Like people crowding narrow halls.

 

Like taste buds exploring a colourful spread,

Like hungry flames soon tended and fed.

 

Like ideas flowing in the form of ink,

Like mesmerized stares unable to blink.

 

Like intertwined fingers lost in time,

Like feral vines tangled in rhyme.

 

Like planting seeds in hopes of spring,

Like searching for a hidden ring.

 

Like shooting arrows at those in love,

Like fitted fabric as pure as a dove.

 

The circle of life in this earth we destroy,

Using and wasting this orbital toy.

 

When nothing is left and the sky falls dark,

When the inhabitants of Earth have left their mark.

 

When the fire within finally dies,

When all your tears are wasted cries.

 

Then this planet we call home will eventually crust,

And all that is left is nothing but dust.