My fingers bled from knifepoint pens,
My heart laid out in scribbles.
A steady rhythm come to end,
A stanza cut through its middle.
Pats on my back from people hence,
They claim my words amuse them,
Yet live through them, still do I,
As I peer through their praise, my lens,
To see you across the lake.
I dole out sonnets like champagne,
But their words are meant for one only,
My meter, like the green light, wanes,
When I realize you desert me.
I damn the day I dared to die,
And cross the barrier of promise,
I damn the moon, the whole night sky,
For bearing a tenth of your beauty.
And should I ever come to fly,
Eastward I will go surely,
For ever, and always, will I try,
To sate this immutable yearning.
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Poetry Collection
PuisiA simple collection of my poetry, some gathered from old notebooks and some bespoke writings for this collection. There is something of a narrative, loosely speaking, that could be constructed here, with recurring mentions of places and unnamed cha...
