Perspective

That morning's bells sung of sweetness,
of spring's reach and winter's end.
Alike the call of holier deeds faultless,
motioning music with hearts to mend.

Yet ever academic in small pursuits,
we're children of science and old tragics.
So mornings as such are untasted fruits,
lost on those distracted by math magics.

Filed and filtered in neatest little rows,
stories of heart, lullaby, and star falls,
hide among hours the reaper sows,
begging for company with unheard calls.


On the bench there with text held aloft,
I might have missed delicate fingers rare;
morning alighting you with sunshine soft,
or the way you turned the pages with care.

Legs crossed, just so, as ladies often do,
besieging my attentions in captured hush.
Thoughts of architecture shifted to you,
and artistic hands reborn yearned for brush.

Collegiate corruption clouded out my mind,
dulling my hunger for some experiences new.
Walking that morning for something to find,
shifted my view from those heights to you.



......
Narrating a once-poet turned cold by accepted facts and trivial wisdom. That morning, he was walking to the library and saw something that all the knowledge in the universe could not compare to...