She flew through his life,
And they called her a tornado.
But she fixed his broken soul,
Brought all the little pieces together...
She was never meant to stay in his life,
But to help him stand tall and then
Bow out.
They called her a tornado,
But look at him now!
Her smile was the sun,
Her tears like a monsoon after a drought.
Her hands around his made him sure of safety,
Yet they call her a tornado.
Yes she flew through his life
But there were no ruins left behind.
She wasn't a tornado.
She was a beautiful, healing force
In her own right.
YOU ARE READING
Letters to my Beloved
PoetryLove is the only thing everyone knows, yet no one can define. It brings searing pain, but heals better than any medicine. I always speak to my Beloved, whoever that may be. It may even be you, sometimes. So walk with me, with every step we'll feel s...
