November Wordsworth

 My are feelings gone, faded, rather undone dead and gone days of delight unfolding, into nightfalls old of odd, nary a speck of season, but every single reason for a truth untold to unfold. Your love is a thing,  so dumb so contagious your heart is a clipboard, where simultaneously feelings are cut and pasted, from me her they were cut and in a twinkle if not only a winkle for her there they were pasted. In solitary solitude, so here down to earth I am confiding in my own aches, in serenity of a breaking heart once so pure now so stained counting scars not the stars only I used to count with you numbering the days, left for a heart to heal. Even though not okay, absolutely I am okay It's okay not to be okay, isn't this what life is all about? snippets of joy for happiness, those of pain for acquaintance forgiving and forgetting so will I the pain but not the lessons learnt. november (the black poet) *woes of sombre hearts* ©2023

This is for you,  from here t o there  where your heart is,  gnarled in mickles of silence  a heart worn inside out,  in a hamlet of your unspoken.  In your dreamy excursions  You speak to my breathe, dance to my heart beat you wish if once I could say it but how? Yet just like me,  you never have ever said a thing.  You huff in your odd sniffles fall for my rising lips,  adore the other falling one.  in your dreams, you call my name stalk along among long hallways,  yet when we meet, you utter all, that's less than a whisper.  Bambi,  see how my heart wilts, will I once ever melt in your fond? brusquely, I adore you,  wish I could say it out but how?  yet just like you I as well I am, a secret admirant. november (the black poet) * woes of a sombre heart* ©2023