He read a homage poem
Whilst squeezing the hand of a pretty lass.
The reverence may seem impertinent
But the delicacy is kind of true
Gathering the momentum
Of meaningless beauty.
He uttered perfectly
Disguised lies in a dazzling manner.
A mirage of the truth lying in a
Bed of lies...like...a dream to
Become true but they
Remained estranged
After all.
He kissed her on the cheek
And she became a price on the
Market...a ransom? No!
A sacrifice? No!
A fool? Yes!
He vindicated the rights of her
And left her bare and oppressed.
A gangsterish syndicate turned
Into a myriad then a déjà vu
Then a nightmare...then_
Nothing!
Was she wrong?
Was it a hand of Satan?
Was she bad?
Was she going to be bad?
Was he in love?
Was he just flirting?
Skirt-chasing: the story of him
Gazing transparently into her eye ball
With wilting roses in his hand to
Just but prophecy a fling; not
Love or friendship.
Who’d say arrivederci to who?
So many things–time, to narrate
But, emotional wreckages trap
Her like a web...and when she
Wakes up from the dream; he’ll
Be sitting on her lap.
He made her smile–wait!
@Da_Scripta
YOU ARE READING
The story of my life
ŞiirWhen life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Life gave me lemons; no sugar, no blender and improvisation was the only ingredient I felt was God given or not. Love is a topic not to begin, but, all I know is that I always consoled my heart whenever it...
