46 years—a story spun,
where words don’t age, but only run.
Through brittle bones and fleeting days,
your ink still shines in silvered ways.
A love that sparks in enthusiastic "HEY,"
a moment seized, no time to sway.
For what’s a life if not a chance,
to love, to lose, to dance in rain?
You write of loss, you write of pain,
yet make them sing in sweet refrain.
Even when time whispers **** that’s old,”
your verses burn like fire to cold.
So tell me, poet, will you weave
more lines for hearts that ache, believe?
For every word you’ve let untwine,
I stand here reading, lost in rhyme.
Mar 3, 2025
Mar 3, 2025 at 1:37 AM UTC
46 years—a story spun,
where words don’t age, but only run.
Through brittle bones and fleeting days,
your ink still shines in silvered ways.
A love that sparks in enthusiastic "HEY,"
a moment seized, no time to sway.
For what’s a life if not a chance,
to love, to lose, to dance in rain?
You write of loss, you write of pain,
yet make them sing in sweet refrain.
Even when time whispers **** that’s old,”
your verses burn like fire to cold.
So tell me, poet, will you weave
more lines for hearts that ache, believe?
For every word you’ve let untwine,
I stand here reading, lost in rhyme.
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