One wonders if we can ever stop
Loving anyone entirely,
Or whether forever they hold a drop
Of the blood that still loves mildly.
And if blood that loves mildly does not dry
But circulates still within us,
Then maybe it's true that love only dies
With us and stays warm, as cinders—
Offshoots of a once magnificent blaze,
A no longer beautiful fire.
Then love, we can say, might live out our days
Up until the point we expire.
YOU ARE READING
An Ongoing Anthology of Poetry
PoesíaThis is a collection of the poetry that I have written and been writing since around about October 2018. Naturally, not every poem has been of a decent enough standard to be included here, but the ones that have been included are the ones that I lik...
