Numb As a Wound-Ii
I am sitting in my Dorchester lair,
Behind the door I feel your lovely mien,
The time my poetic muse is in the air,
You look so much 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 could see you embossed on the pages.
Sighing, wry face, the lips as a dry leaf,
Your green blue deep eyes upraised fully,
Neither the death kills me, nor does the life,
Your silence always eats my soul and body.
Numb as a disease, I die of a thought,
Do not you sense the same as I ought do?
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