Saturday, March 26, 2011

These Days

These Days, she floats around on pretty heels,
Smiles and sighs lighting up her worried face.
There is a delicate skip in her steps; on little toes
She dances and twirls around. Whistling.
Gently running her fingers over the words,
She pleads with them to come alive. Once.

As she turns away her face to long a little more,
Her conversations are left to fend their fate.
Surprised companions raise their cynical brows;
But then, dears, so little of her do they know.
Just one truant poke with a knowing finger
And she would willingly dissolve into specks.

The nights are long, the days lengthier still;
But her heart has never been more full of faith.
She will waltz in her white dress, humming
A song that only her lips know the words of
And she will brave the jealous stares
As to her little private jokes, she chuckles aloud.

We play this Game but ache for those dreams,
Lying to believe that a different world exists.
Mad, mad love. And enough of it to go around.
When just a dollop of it can make our world round.
So, dears, steal a peak at her on one of these days
And borrow her music for your troubled souls.

1 comment:

  1. Do you know how erotic it is to recognise oneself in a poem?