The Way the Wind Blows - Me.

For often I wonder,Why sadness,Why sorrow,
why I write poetry
on graves and corpses, of feelings trampled upon
Why not sunshine, why not the daffodils, why not the brook
crooked little paths, ephemeral love stories or feelings so delicate.
but beauty extracts its price, nature never gives when there is none
the best photographs, are still from the darkest rooms
If you stare long enough, even shadows are friends.
Some get the day, Some the night...nobody gets everything right.