Numb As a Wound
I am sitting in my Dorchester lair,
Behind the door I feel your mien,
When my poetic muse is in the air,
You look real as life, amore mia.
When I am surfing on the internet,
You are there in my click I envisage,
When I initiate to scribe a sonnet,
I see you embossed on the page.
Sighing, wry face, lips as a dry leaf,
Your green deep eyes upraised fully,
Neither death kills me, nor does life,
Your silence eats my soul and body.
Numb as a disease, I die of a thought,
Don’t you sense the same as I ought?.
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