The spring of '63
In the warm sun,
On that old,
Yet familiar,
Park bench.
Many days
We'd spent there.
Talking till our voices were gone.
We loved so thoroughly,
In the spring of '63
You said you loved me.
But nonetheless,
I now sit alone.
Because I cannot bare,
To ruin the memory,
Of days spent there.
And the flowers,
That you put in my hair,
Long dead and gone.
Here in this park.
Our park.
Because the spring of '63
Still holds the key,
To my ever beating heart.
YOU ARE READING
Who's Heart is This Anyway
PoezjaJust some poems that I come up with on my own time... Here's a sample of one in the book: We were a kaleidoscope of colors, Twisting and turning, At every possible moment. A new masterpiece at every view.
