In want of Love,
The poet becomes
A Heartsick Fiend;...
who uses Words like
Drugs.
(to ease his lonely
Suffering.)
All Beauty, and Mystical
Images brought out by the
strokes of his pen, are merely
wishes he seeks to fulfill;
(or better memories through
Art relived again.)
Thus it is with a Bittersweet
Acceptance that I cast myself
amongst the Poets Lot;...and may
my Pen (in describing you) Be
true!....
lest my mind, (much like my heart)
shall rot!
(or become a memory better left Forgot.)
J.Stephen.H
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