Born from a quiver of my unaware heart,
Too abstract yet, to become art,
You danced there, in that hall where only I've been,
But fled before I could grasp what I'd seen,
I squinted to see you, and found no trace,
For you'd slipped, so quick, sans grace,
Gone art thee, from the clasp of my pen,
Never to return to my mental den,
Oh hasty fledglings of words unformed,
Why fly before your wings've formed?
You've run perhaps not to your death,
But to a realm where none shall know your worth,
You're mourned, my friends, oh have you ears?
And shall be, so, for several years,
Not just by me, your writer,
But by all who couldn't read your letters,
You've denied them that nameless pleasure,
That fills their souls when they read you, new and pure,
A moment they'd cherish, over and over,
As their fingers pass over your written inky critters,
Aah you could've had a home forever,
Immortal, you'd reign hearts sincere,
Living not one life but a thousand and more,
Born each time you're read, with renewed fervour,
You'd grow to endless depths like the sea,
All this you'd be, and still sit free,
On page of paper filled with my scrawl,
Ugly in writing but words so beautiful,
Oh words that bring treats to eyes,
That carry feelings through time and space,
Pray answer this pained query,
Do you feel no ounce of the pain you carry?
Eyes that read you, with tears well,
How then, could you leave me so cold?
I scream and run in vain effort,
Only to know you've turned to naught,
I build you a temple in my fickle soul,
And murmur a quiet farewell,
To words that I failed to tell,
And to it, I add my books that fell,
Too abstract yet, to become art,
You danced there, in that hall where only I've been,
But fled before I could grasp what I'd seen,
I squinted to see you, and found no trace,
For you'd slipped, so quick, sans grace,
Gone art thee, from the clasp of my pen,
Never to return to my mental den,
Oh hasty fledglings of words unformed,
Why fly before your wings've formed?
You've run perhaps not to your death,
But to a realm where none shall know your worth,
You're mourned, my friends, oh have you ears?
And shall be, so, for several years,
Not just by me, your writer,
But by all who couldn't read your letters,
You've denied them that nameless pleasure,
That fills their souls when they read you, new and pure,
A moment they'd cherish, over and over,
As their fingers pass over your written inky critters,
Aah you could've had a home forever,
Immortal, you'd reign hearts sincere,
Living not one life but a thousand and more,
Born each time you're read, with renewed fervour,
You'd grow to endless depths like the sea,
All this you'd be, and still sit free,
On page of paper filled with my scrawl,
Ugly in writing but words so beautiful,
Oh words that bring treats to eyes,
That carry feelings through time and space,
Pray answer this pained query,
Do you feel no ounce of the pain you carry?
Eyes that read you, with tears well,
How then, could you leave me so cold?
I scream and run in vain effort,
Only to know you've turned to naught,
I build you a temple in my fickle soul,
And murmur a quiet farewell,
To words that I failed to tell,
And to it, I add my books that fell,
Words that'd give such glee my written lines never could,
Sealing within me and indelible blot,
An unrest that shall forever live on
In the inmost chambers of my within,
To thee, I leave these last few words,
So they may rhyme with the wordless silence,
That succeedes your slip from my flimsy fingers,
And your eternal visit to the dark alleys of forever.
Sealing within me and indelible blot,
An unrest that shall forever live on
In the inmost chambers of my within,
To thee, I leave these last few words,
So they may rhyme with the wordless silence,
That succeedes your slip from my flimsy fingers,
And your eternal visit to the dark alleys of forever.
