Life is not easy, my love
Life is too short
But we yet listened to them
instead of holding our hands

We didn't trust ourselves
our trembling, doubting heart.
I think I got scared
and made us move apart

A stranger you were
but I fell in love
so, I tried to sense myself
avoiding have me hurt

Now dearly I do  pay
as many poems as I wrote
my heart is still in pain

All these feelings, my love...
Will you fight for me
or should I throw them away?

I feel your reluctance once again
but you've shown me boldness back then
What is now? I  don't understand

A clouded veil all over you
I feel it always there..
Are you in pain, my love?
Did I  hurt you someway?
Or just your pessimism prevails?

Many things remained unsaid
It's time the play came to an end
Don't you think too, my love?
that truth is the only way
to push the pain away

I understand that words may come out wrong sometimes
but your eyes...
they never lie, my love

Big, sparkling eyes
charming like you
but a long, sad story
I see behind the blue

Just remember
I  care about you

Now, heal my wounds
Give my hopes a stay
or make clear to me
I  won't be yours anyway

We were met on two shores
trying to get to the beach
we both knew the terminus
stood just out of reach
and we settled for us
with the thought in our heads
that if something improved
we’d move out of there.

Then the storm had subsided
and none of us cried it
was more than we’d hoped for
and mother just moped there for
days but we’ll raise her spirits
buy in more spirits and drink her a toast
while the waves belt the coast.

I sit beside you
A thousand miles away,
Holding your hand in my heart.
I can see your eyes
That can only look back
To where the sun was hot
And your childhood stretched
Beyond peace.

Until dreams undid you.
Your heart wasn’t big enough
For the monstrous three time loss.
But  the fourth broke you
And Hope eloped with Happiness.

Living became coping
And you, ever grateful for a nod.
In your prison you did your best,
But broken tools don’t always mend
You were wrong, it turns out -
Love isn’t always the answer.

Unborn plans to which we aspire
broken daydreams piled ever higher
one day when we finally expire
they end up on our funeral pyre
a few lost hopes to fuel the fire!

Arch your fingers, clasp your palm,
touch the keys as if pulling
at the heartstrings of a lover;
back in the looming financial crash of 2007
when a family bought a piano
and a new house,
and a young girl ached Chopin.

With your hand out of the window
and the car on the motorway,
talon hands, poised,
feel the air as a shotput;
smooth, round, permanent - oxygen bubbles
puppeteering pale fingertips
until the window goes up
and the radio is heard again.

Speaking three languages,
la mort, la mort, la mort;
D – E – A – D
the keys cannot spell ‘childhood’,
but her fingers reach
more than an octave now
(her thumb still ******).

Chopin welcomes her
to her final decomposition;
her piano, dusty
and blooming with flowers
through each key,
plays discords
that don’t quite make
a funeral march.