Poets Cry

source: Study Breaks Magazine

I’m sitting on a window sill

three floors high, waiting

on the ink to flow still

and for the tears to stop debating.

Fingers clench my throat but will

a soul consider to stop them? flaking

words scurry across the page with ill

intentions of forsaking (me).

She’s gone, my love, she’s gone…

But wait! A memory is to reveal

itself to me, no. it has scattered…

like after having wine; my tears start to steal

the words as if they hadn’t mattered.

The truth posing on my heart pushes me to be aware

that even if the weeping chooses to subside,

the ink and where it lays will be there.

They will take my waves and turn them to tides.

She’s gone, my love, she’s gone.