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Ashlyn Gallant May 2015
Aimee sits beneath the Cypress Tree,
A yellow carnation adorns her hair.
"Pardonnez-moi" she whispers to me
And then she hangs her head in despair.

In confidence I gave her the dagger
She used to pierce my heart,
"Je suis desole," she cries out,
Mourning for the bond she tore apart.

How am I to forgive her treachery
When Ophelia's madness stirs my soul?
"Croyez-moi a nouveau, " She pleads
As the mask of grief takes control.

I walk away with a heavy heart
And try not to see what I leave behind.
Farewell my friend, till we meet again
May your new life treat you kind.
PIRO  Jul 2018
Poet's Echoes
PIRO Jul 2018
With the pen, we linger.
Our heart, we pored out.
Our feelings, the clearer.
Finding words; when we are, it's like a bout.

Very spiritual, ask the real ones.
Pain-free, when it's coming easily.
Pain-ful, the writer's block forms.
Sigh! Finding motivation for our gree.

Blissful, it's our hope.
Unsubdued, a talent that brets.
In a globe full of glope.
We've found our own trait.

Having fun with intelligence, we often let out.
Ideas, muchly underrated.
Flashed stuffs, the world's missing out.
Desole poets, I know I've understated.

Peter Oyebanji (PIRO)
Theo  Feb 2022
lulu
Theo Feb 2022
verdant flowers
foggy sights
complementing
your swampy tinted eyes

once i was smitten
and forever i will be
snuggling this one
as safe as a kitten

your warm sweet voice
enveloping the darkness within
patience and reassurance
holding on to the last bit of hope

full of flaws and contempt
may seemingly be unattractive
yet your gaze and tenderness
seeing the good in all bitterness

desole, je ne suis pas parfait
mais je taime tellement.
will you be
my valentine?

— The End —