who prayed for her attention for so long.
She might have heard his pretty words, at least,
if only he had written them in song.
There lived a silent poet underneath
the muted suit of armor that he wore,
but only at its death did love bequeath
the nerve to write what wasn 't said before.
A never-written sonnet is a waste.
To hold the tongue of love is near a sin.
The sweetest words acquire the vilest taste
when seasoned with a love that might have been.
His poetry, his eloquence and light,
is wasted on the cold and lonely night.
No comments:
Post a Comment