IMAGINATION
The writer sat alone, his heart so heavy,
A pen in hand, his mind so unsteady,
For he had loved a girl so pure and true,
But fate had dealt him a hand so cruel.
He wrote of her beauty, her gentle grace,
Of how she lit up his darkest space,
Of how her eyes shone like stars so bright,
Of how her laughter filled him with delight.
But deep down in his heart, he knew,
That the love he had would never come true,
For she had gone, and left him behind,
And now he wrote of a love so blind.
He wrote of the times they spent together,
Of how he wished they'd last forever,
Of how her smile had touched his soul,
Of how her love had made him whole.
And though she was gone, his love remained,
A flame that burned, a passion unchained,
And every word he wrote was a prayer,
To keep their love alive, to keep it rare.
He wrote of how he missed her touch,
Of how he longed for her so much,
Of how his heart would never be free,
From the pain of a love that was meant to be.
And as he wrote, tears fell down his cheek,
His heart so full, so broken, so weak,
For he had loved her with all his might,
But now he wrote of a love that took flight.
And as the night grew long and dark,
He knew he must let go, must find a spark,
To light his way through the darkness ahead,
And find a new love, a new path to tread.
But deep down in his heart, he knew,
That the love he had for her would always be true,
And every word he wrote was a tribute,
To a love that was pure, a love that was beautiful, and yet so futile.
27.03.2023
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