This is the love I fail to say.
This bouquet of gray,
Will never be on its way,
And arrive at bay.
From far far deep,
I write the love I weep.
Memories always seem to creep,
Leaving me to fall down the steep.
The truth lies in my poetry.
I write it for you solely,
Never knowing if these thoughts,
Will ever pass my knots.
But I'm arranging a script,
To let this off my grip.
But I guess the tears I drip,
Makes it harder to slip.