Wednesday, March 5, 2008
`
old
The flowers whisper,
the secrets they hear.
The petals flutter,
they hear her mutter.
It was then autumn,
the leaves they would count.
The stories they'd tell,
those sweet nothings they knew so well.
The sunset they drew,
the bubbles they blew.
The colours she'd weave,
their farewell she'd grief.
It was then summer,
the doll he gave her.
It was their first kiss,
his warmth she would miss.
The pages he'd flip,
Together, a book that they'd read.
The ivory they'd tinkle,
like the stars, its melodious twinkle.
It was then spring,
for her, the songs he'd sing.
She'd dance under the starry skies,
the willows sway, their silent cries.
A pair of footprints in the sand,
sneaking behind, he'd grab her hand.
He's put his fingers to her lips,
" Don't say a word, remember this. "
It was then winter,
when icy winds cackle.
A lovely princess made from snow,
they'd go to arms, snowballs to throw.
She slowly began to wonder,
so she wrote in curly letters.
" I wish that this magical bliss,
would never ever come to cease. "
A whiff of lavender,
their 51st summer.
A chimney smokes, a kettle sings,
a cup of coffee, for her, he brings.
The flowers whisper,
the secrets they hear.
And by the seaside,
they huddle beside.
A story was told,
and so they grew old.
Oops,
fairy tales don't exist,
do they.
`old
Wrote this rather long ago,
the plan was to wait until I felt slightly happier,
then I'd post it.
Never got to,
so I added the last part.
Fits, doesn't it.
Back, because I'm on off.
But returning very soon,
returning to a shitload of work waiting for me to settle.
Maybe, I'd hope we'd have the chance to talk properly.
I'd love to dream sweetly.
8:05 PM; `dead.Y