Second Hand Man
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She packed her bags one day
Left me in the dark
Running away, what a lark
I stare at the walls; life seems so bleak and stark
I wrote her love letters
Only a thousand or two
The poor old postman
Carrying them all back to my door
Return to sender was the obvious score
So I took my pen and wrote a few more
Before dousing my desires
In the illusions of folklore
Where out of the forest
On a mist filled dawn
Returned my princess
Singing our song
Alas I walk along lonely forest paths
I dream and ponder of what might have been
I look up to the heavens and demand, what was my sin?
That I am alone, surrounded in deathly silence
A second hand man
Waiting
For a second hand rose
Copyright © Arthur Vaso | Year Posted 2015
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