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They Never Told Me
They Never Told Me
They never told me that the clouds had become white sponges, stuffing sofas, or the sun had become a precious stone, settling at the bottom of a glass filled with water, held in the hand of a wealthy man.
They never told me that night was merely the changing of curtains.
Or that the sea had moved into a room, and that pearls have a home other than tearful eyes.
They never told me they hold back the rain with their hands, keeping it from falling, until everything returns to its place.
They never told me
They never told me that the clouds had become white sponges, stuffing sofas, or the sun had become a precious stone, settling at the bottom of a glass filled with water, held in the hand of a wealthy man.
They never told me that night was merely the changing of curtains.
Or that the sea had moved into a room, and that pearls have a home other than tearful eyes.
They never told me they hold back the rain with their hands, keeping it from falling, until everything returns to its place.