Thursday, December 11, 2008
..remains of the day..

Says he:
A shattered bottle of perfume,
And an unfinished poem
Are all that's left to me
Of the things that we could be.

He was a beggar before her
Beseeching a queen's grace
And though hopeless as it was
A believer she made him, alas.

With flowers he said his love
Wrote poems with her in mind
And sleepless nights he spent
Memories of her smile, her scent.

Every moment was torture
Like none other he had felt
But each glance of hers made up
For he did drain the bitter cup.

Hope it was that carried him on
Hope, that makes jokers of men
Hopes of a love that'd conquer
The odds, be they ever so darker.

So in love was he, the maudlin
All his belongings he pawned
And bought a perfume exquisite
For his lady, token of love implicit.

Ah the moth, he knows not
That the flame cares not for none
Belongs to the candle she does
And everything else is detritus.

Thus it was she chose to reveal
She belonged to someone, not him
Though she knew of his love ardent
For her he was but toy of a moment.

To be continued..
posted by One Bizarre Scribe at 7:54 PM | Permalink | 2 comments