Rain is cold, but love is colder.
Her arms are wrapped around my shoulders,
And while her lips are soft, unlike the rain-
Bigoted looks wrought unimaginable pain.
Her delicacy's my strength, her cold is my heat,
Heckles of disgust, our confidence deplete.
All is forgotten as we passionately kiss,
This fiery moment is one I refuse to miss.
Frowns arise from the observing crowd,
The volume of silence has never been so loud.
The fence that cages us is rusty and old,
Our reluctant clutch absorbs its cold.
Upon it, we tug, grovelling for comprehension,
Their narrow mind, merely one dimension!
Heavy downpour, metallic like tin,
Fails to cleanse us of our angelic sin-
This mad, mad love- dangerously divine,
Her fragile hands tremble to embrace mine.
And as they touch, a spark of hatred ignites-
The ignorant onlookers, keen to dim our light,
Shake heads with absolute disapproval,
Impatiently anticipating our removal-
In the distance, shafts of sunlight appear,
Suddenly soothing our mutual fear-
We sprint an escape from the desolate land,
Simply together, hand in hand.
YOU ARE READING
A Procrastinator's Poetry
PoetryI tend to procrastinate. A lot. Instead of doing homework, revision and things that are considered useful to others my age, I sit and contemplate things. Things that I usually express via the profound art of poetry. Most of the poems I publish are n...
