If you ever glanced at me you’d see
My pained eyes that silently scream
The utter helplessness of being in love.
You may give yourself into the arms,
Of another man and he may in turn,
Walk out on someone like you,
Reminiscent of the autumn clouds
That are made of our dreams,
Delicate as the wings of butterflies
That are lettered with our wishes
Their wistful glory is lost palpably
In some mysterious dimension,
For all things are ephemeral.
And so in the end, it doesn’t matter
If you belong to me or to him
But you must belong to poetry,
Your inimitable essence worded,
Which forever defies the cold rains
Poured from the urn of timeless Time.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 6:39 AM UTC
If you ever glanced at me you’d see
My pained eyes that silently scream
The utter helplessness of being in love.
You may give yourself into the arms,
Of another man and he may in turn,
Walk out on someone like you,
Reminiscent of the autumn clouds
That are made of our dreams,
Delicate as the wings of butterflies
That are lettered with our wishes
Their wistful glory is lost palpably
In some mysterious dimension,
For all things are ephemeral.
And so in the end, it doesn’t matter
If you belong to me or to him
But you must belong to poetry,
Your inimitable essence worded,
Which forever defies the cold rains
Poured from the urn of timeless Time.
