Verse may save me,
But love cannot.
I scan the sombre air,
Searching for those eyes,
But when I catch them,
Hers peer elsewhere,
Finding their retreat.
I cannot have her,
And she cannot have me,
A conundrum it may seem,
But one that was written from the very start.
We may toyfully play in each other’s presence,
Find pleasure in the brush of the idle hand on a hopeful thigh.
The trailing arm which sweeps sweetly past her radiant charm.
Like halting the first signs of Spring in deepest of Winters,
Cease living the blessed Nightingale after only one sweet day of song.
Buds of joy stay closed and die.
Poem By OLLIE GIBSON