Just because you cannot see,
the scars you tore inside of me,
it does not mean I will not forget,
how you tossed me aside without regret.
You thought I was a piece of trash,
but you were wrong,
I rose like a phoenix from the ash,
and sang my sweet song.
I sang it to the trees,
who held me oh so dearly,
I sang not of blood or glory,
rather that love would restore me.
They answered me,
whispering oh so lovingly,
not chiding my childish choice,
but enveloping me in their sweet voice.
They sang not of love, or loss,
but of blossom and moss,
but the time came for me to choose,
to stay in their woody bosom,
or risk it all, for my fickle heart.
YOU ARE READING
Heart extracts
PoetryCan you pin love down with ink and paper? Or on screen with pixels? No. But we must try Love is patient and kind. Love is not jealous. It does not brag, does not get puffed up, does not behave indecently, does not look for its own interests, does...
