We were not much of age,
when you asked me to write on your hand,
draw flowers in your textbook.
Smiling in the shadows of the classroom,
we were not much of age,
when I bought you gifts of my dreams
villages, cities and oceans traversed in moments,
of just love,
Or was it?-
Why must you hammer,
the nail in my coffin?
.
Why must you define?-
something I have failed over and over again;
Why must, the castles built on sand,
not be the ocean's to relish?-
Why must the sculptures built in stone;
be not time's eternal feast?-
.
We were not much of age,
why must then the world know why
Rose lived and Jack did not?
Tell me-
why must the teardrops count,
after they washed away all the footprints
that were ours.
LOKI
YOU ARE READING
Mirror Of Me | Poetry ✔
Poetry[a poetry collection] a dance to the fleeting emotions, notes to the music of life, a story of everything felt and told yet still, so many stories; so very untold. Of nights spent in solace of people so much more. Rankings: 🥇#poetry...
