(To Henrik Ibsen, June 23, 2025)
I don’t believe ideal love is real… Can castles in the sky be built to last eternities? Or rather burn, as fast as marriage papers (and melt the holy seal)? Besides, I hate to think I’m meant to steal the blueprint to a fortress from my past to use to plan my future, to forecast the whim of winds who caren’t for mortal zeal? Does there exist a Master Builder clever enough to build a home that neither rots nor suffers,—which fever may never sever? Apart from high upon the playwright’s stages, or daftly dancing in a daisy’s thoughts, soulmates live alone on a poet’s pages
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Be the first to comment on this poem. Encourage this poet.