When words flow, when ink never ends
Pages seem to fill on their own
How I love thee, let me count the ways…
With every thought from heart written down
Wherefore art thou, O’lady mine that hast conquered my soul…
With each whispered breath, reciting poems, meant for thee
Days on days, sit with pen on parchment, held with fear
May come that dreadful day, no one will ever read nor hear
Manuscripts piled high, pages bound and loose
Stained with coffee drips and ashes burnt
Titleless and nameless, dates serve no purpose
For these words sewn will fade in time by age
Possessed am I, fingers black and blue
The result of squeezing life from my pen, it’s true
For who am I, if not a dreamer, dreaming
I am but a lifeless beast without a heart beating
The saddest poem is
The one never held
The saddest poem is
The one never read
The saddest poem is
The one never written
Ax