There was a flower in a scented garden,
It gleamed as it lay hanging from a tree,
It waved in the breeze with perfume laden,
And beckoned, softly, nodding toward me.
I reached out my hand, but just fingertip
Brushed it fleetingly, and, oh, its softness
Was much like the kiss of an infant lip,
While its one-eyed stare was all loneliness.
I waited for him to come and help me,
Waited for him to lend a stronger hand,
Waited for him to set the blossom free,
And I waited for him to understand.
But my wait stretched to an eternity,
And the flower died in its wait for me.
Tag: Relationship
The Angel.
The angel came to the virgin,
Amidst flakes of white snow;
To the virgin, who lived in joy,
And knew not what was woe.
The angel came to the virgin,
And hugged her in his wings—
Just like the Swan did dumb Leda—
And taught her earthly things.
The heat melted the white-bright snow,
Tinting her lips with red;
As the last flake melted, he left
But feathers on her bed.
She began to think, to but cry,
Tears, tears, instead of snow,
Replaced angels with mortal men,
And battled against woe.
Tears.
Tears . . . tears form in my brain,
But do not reach my eyes . . .
(Perhaps I love in vain,
For I know all love dies.)
In memories that last,
They cling to words spoken;
In thinking of the past,
Bear dreams that are broken.
They scan each vow you made,
Imagine each part of you,
See each vow, slowly, fade,
With no existing clue.
They cry, helpless, in pain,
For now, although each tries –
Imprisoned by my brain –
They will not reach my eyes!



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