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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I. Conversation comes in polite manners And natural tones. We talk; You of your early mornings While I of scattering Thoughts that border on nonsense Debating with myself on a mind divided. I babble, distraught; Should I or should I not Complement such aspect reserved For poets' words and artists' eyes? What with autumn and its golden flares Burning your crown like a halo then and there. Thus in laughter-filled sentences This dilemma is masked in unintelligible disguise; Little by little instead the moment Is impressed on my mind, Wishing it would never end. On and on, To never end this talk —I wish. II. Inexplicable How the sweetest voice can be A knife thrust in my chest So beautiful Yet it is murder, this subsequent longing. What Dushenne has given a name to, Yours has dissolved the defiance from all My peers and I; A smile that begins from the tones Of earth in your eyes As you speak of funny anecdotes, Sharing shortcomings with wild abandon As if there I was standing Your confidant, your closest friend. Albeit in hindsight lies the irony: Whilst I talk with affection Of comradeship you spoke. III. Talking in circles, round and round; Lost in the boredom of redundancy, You depart. Having dispensed of farewell's pleasantries, On opposite direction you walk; As free as the wind that takes you away, Bound only by being blessed To be amongst all of Heaven's creation The fairest. While I, on opposite direction, walk; Punished With tacit solicitude and its rubbish fantasies. Turn on the radio, plug in the phones; Searching the radio for liberation, I find only more poison Among the melancholic remedies it offers. Fevered I am with the sickness Of wishing For what can never be. IV. On opposite directions we walk; You depart Naught of burden of memory nor nostalgia, While I, On your first parting step, Died; V. You have taken with you my heart.
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