A song

If I were a poem,
would words be my eyes?
To shed tears and to curve
into a poignant smile,
staring blankly
into the depths of my child's eyes?
I shall but cast a golden glow,
stolen from the daffodils that dim,
for
reflect deep in the
shadow
of her irises,
I shall want to,
A hidden sorrow?
The crimson, she shall see?
Somewhere..
amidst the black and white.
Or will it be a blister bared,
left unnoticed, uncared?

If I were a poem,
would my fingers be the colours?
(thumb prints)
Their sword cast away,
the fight concised,
the bloody ink dried..
Just pictures of purple miserable waves
And a scuttling ship so silent,
cradled
back and forth
back and forth
Ideas relinquished
.
.
into nothingness,
For the flame but dies
amidst those colours.
All that remains
.
.
is chequered chess squares.

If I were a poem,
I shall be a song.
A melody so musical
That drawn she shall be
to the melancholy.
For all she shall hear,
Shall be the strains,
(Squeezed.
From within,
blue lemon juice?)
Blank and imperfect,
yet pleasant.
(For music it is,
A Childish rhyme!)
Isn't that all you seek, my child?
Or is that all
I seek?