Nameless
It has no name,
this unfamiliar feeling,
glimmering prismatic
like oil on a street puddle,
overlooked by polished shoes
uncaring as they pass by
life’s understated beauties.
It has no name,
this unfamiliar feeling,
but I would capture it if I could,
in an old glass bottle
on a shelf of tattered novels
where whimsical characters roam,
immortal in ink and dreams.
Some faraway frost-tinted day,
I would like to feel it again.
