A Memory
my white hair
always speak of you
it is your beauty
that it brags
to my forehead
whose furrows
lead me to a pond
of sweet memories
the ripples there
speak of the rain
and the rain sings
about this pain
the pain shows me
a scar
the scar remembers
the wound
that you inflicted
and i was that man
who believed
that once love existed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
