I sit on the terrace
Of Le Cafe du Coeur
The morning sun, bringing subtle rays of hope
To this otherwise dull moment
I sip mon cafe, dreaming of others
And other times
Fine linen paper, pen in hand
The loneliest poem in all the land
The words flow, ink to paper
One line at a time
They sing of thoughts
Emotions long drained, other times
It is time for a walk to nowhere
Along the banks of a river with no name
I leave the cafe table, a cafe with no fame
I left the poem, with empty glass, alone
There sits this poem, written for no one
On a table, in quiet solitude
Waiting for the next clientele to arrive
The waiter clears the empty glass, no more…
She sits, alone, the day begun
Her life a mystery to us all
As she sees this paper of fine linen
With words, so elegantly scrawled
The waiter with espresso in hand, smiles
As she reads a strangers words
They speak to the very desires of her heart
They tell her who she is
This sunny day turns to rain
As her tears wash the table cloth
She weeps
For finally, she knows
Who she desires
A poet with no name
my love bled
across the page
as a fountain pen's ink
bleeds into the fibers
of linen paper
my heart spilling
it's love for you
in crimson flowing script
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.