Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nov 2018
It probably hurts the most because it wasn't about me.
The squish, the warm glow, starkly empty.
That wisdom, the wit, the caring concern,
My unheeded affections already in urn.
I fostered ignorant hope, tentative dreams,
I shudder to think of all my unfruitful schemes.
There's wounded pride, yes. A small sadness, too.
But now I just pray it was unknown to you.
Written by
Grace Spalding  Granada, Spain
(Granada, Spain)   
  217
   Fawn
Please log in to view and add comments on poems