Made with love and only for me

The Poet

Alas…

My friend, we meet again—
You haven’t aged,
As cursed as your sort.
You’ve chosen me,
As if God had not set me apart.

Is it true?
I, the poet, once again have met my verse—
Paper to pen.

My heart bellows in madness,
And my soul cannot endure the sadness.

The sun only shines at the moon’s dark face.
The Earth flutters to ash,
Singing lullabies of arsenic and old lace.

Intertwined are we,
My sanity and I—
The haunting drum,
Playing the songs of my cry.

How I wish different things could be,
How I wish eternal peace
between you and me.
How I wish clearer,
We both could see.

I refuse to accept this is how it is all to be.
I will dwell in fantasy forevermore—
To love and be loved is the oldest tradition of forgotten lore.