Sunday, April 8, 2012

A(lone)ly Day

I can't say they never told me to leave it alone
That literature was for aged men and love for the mature
To pursue the simpler things
Dance maybe
Or song
But I wanted art in my life
So I poured my heart into stanzas
And I fell in love with a poem.
What the writer never finds out
Is that no matter how sympathetic
How exceptionally attractive words can be
How delicious they taste as you devour them from paper
Rolling them around your mouth savoring the lyric
They have a distinct way
Of leaving you when you need them the most
And the tragedy of a forgotten lover sitting at a window on a lonely day
Is multiplied for the writer who can't find the right words to say
We never find out about that special aloneness
Until love has come
And it's too late to turn away.

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