Constance
Constance, my friend, like you, I am a dreamer,
treading on the pathless path of fate
tending to the scars on my soul.
Memories have you looking inward,
writing poems that take my breath away,
lamenting how rainy day blues have levied their toll.
You've shown me the beauty of morning dew,
the surreal, unfathomable reverie
of dreamy places, and had me flying with the birds.
Sometimes it feels like I'm walking on broken glass
or drowning in the deep, deep, blue sea:
when I hear sorrow, like a lover, whisper such sad words.
Citing the beauty in rain and the beauty of dusk,
you've shown me grief is love, with nowhere to go:
and I am one with the spirits in the sky.
Saturated in solitude, there is a dream place.
filled with ebon veins of old thoughts,
where childhood memories oft make you cry.
You are a poet born from grief,
broken into a thousand beautiful pieces;
trusting love will heal the world.
And collecting all the pieces to the puzzle,
you swim against an undercurrent of melancholy,
to find both love and woe in the netherworld.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2021
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