My songbird,
He can hit every note
That I long to hear;
I needn't even say
What it is that I desire,
And perhaps sometimes
I don't know myself.
He says the things
That an old lover once said,
The sort of things
That dry my eyes
And sing me back to sleep.
He knows which words
Will stitch me back together,
And he speaks them softly;
He knows that those words
Must be said that way,
But still, my sweet mockingbird
Can sing his own tune too -
How it stings,
The malice with which
He can pull me apart.
His own words are sometimes
Sharp, sometimes
Blunt,
But they wound me all the same.
Only when he is satisfied
Does he pick up the pieces,
And whisper the things
That my old lover would say;
He tells me all of the things
That convince me to stay.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
