You were the bright flame,
Always looking for kindling,
Never one for playing games
And I was a pile of twigs,
Far too damp for a spark.
Oh, but how you lit up my cold heart.
You took your time in approaching me,
Smiling from a distance,
Hidden behind tall trees.
Slowly the twigs dried,
And less, my heart cried.
But your heart is a flame,
And I am the twigs,
Your love is like an incendiary,
And you hurt me.
And when you left me in the dark night,
All that was left was silver smoke in the cool breeze.
YOU ARE READING
Oleander-COMPLETED
PoetryALL RIGHTS RESERVED Her words were like oleander flowers, so delicate, like a gossamer spider string, but poisonous, like her scarred, despondent heart. *in other words, my crap poetry that is still really important to me*
