A poet’s soul,
Is neither kind nor forgiving.
We have been hardened by life,
And moulded by its strife.
These are things we are not born with, but acquire:
Eyes that reek of judgement,
Tongue bitter from the taste of truth,
And an imagination that defies gravity.
These are things we do not dread, but desire:
Nights devoid of sleep,
Passion that burns a hole through your heart,
And a mind that obeys no one.
Rummaging through memories,
I found pieces of your soul
Forgotten glimpses of affection
And time spent in adoration.
We were kids who didn’t know better
Thought all we needed was each other.
And as our pool of love dug deeper into the ground,
I inevitably drowned.
Now we speak of joy in past tense
Not a lot of what we do makes sense
In the process of growing up,
Life happens to love.