"desole" poems
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.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 5:29 AM UTC
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)
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC