title: to one who cannot love me

 

 

second portrait of gwen
From this cosmic stone we live upon
many lyrics have been bred
To hyperbolize the essence
of the life inside our heads.
But of sibilant lines of poetry
I fear it must be said
That in solitude they’re written
and in lonliness they’re read.
There’s nothing quite can measure life
like living life itself;
And there is nothing much alive
in paper on the shelf.
But how much more alive am I,
a desultory man,
When reaching out for you I find
there’s nothing where you stand?
With wavering hand ungathered
to a sympathetic heart;
A sharing never shared between,
this whole remains a part.
For you prefer the emptiness,
the cold, unfeeling walls
Of the prison deep inside yourself
where only misery crawls.
Without you, then, I must remain
a lonely poet still;
With tangled fingers scribbling lines
to a heart I cannot fill.
 
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