“Expressing love is difficult,
when one only can in red.
The blood of my imagination,
these words…” the Poet said.
”I cannot write of loving you,
without including death
How can I describe your heart
when its still inside your chest?”
”But,” the Lover soon replies,
”how shall our love go on?”
This leaves the Poet standing speechless,
the words inside him, gone.
”Oh, my darling butterfly,
You’re making my mind swell.
I have also pondered this.
I’ll take my life as well.”
”But, my silly Poet, why?
When life is ours to live?”
”I do not like this life” he says,
it’s all but hell to him.
”Well Poet, another day, I beg!”
She’s hoping he’ll forget…
”Tomorrow then, my final day”
replies the relieved Poet.
And with this, they kiss goodbye,
Like every other day,
Always the same conversation,
Before going their own ways.
They lived for years together and,
He never caused her harm,
For he was always cheerful when,
He held her in his arms. |
