15
It is now six at night
the clock still ticking
through the silence as to my delight
dark and lingering.
Shall the demons get to me
for that, I have no information
but let them be
for they are my bittersweet commotion.
I love you so much
five words, written in black
my thumb with its soft touch
above every letter and back.
Such short words
with a deeply hidden purpose
a hidden story that is unheard
whilst to me, a pain in cursive.
Surrounding it with its four corners
all ends that cannot inflict pain
torture
but so cannot crumple, I strain.
Frustration and defeat
eyes almost drowning
memories, an affliction on repeat
not worth remembering.
Oh, but a deception
why must I lie
with no redemption
three syllables, that I have not bid goodbye.
Why must I hurt my heart
while staring at the paper
from it, I can't depart
for thyself, can't make a falter.
Already folded in two
now closing my eyes
what has my life become into?
now the time flies.
Then appear
one single tear.
-A-
YOU ARE READING
Catoptric Tristesse
Poetry"When you write from the heart, They are your work of art. Whatever pattern, You choose to do it doesn't matter. The pen and your paper are your instruments, That would create brilliance." catoptric tristesse: (n.) "the sadness that you'll never...
