The trance of time waved over the limited
She was needed where she was left off
Yet unaware were her tresses,
Of the strong wind that blew past by…
Her lip balm was still wet…
It’s color, motionless anew.
A mis-guided reverie,
Both combined…aaahh what a treasury!
Leave her bosom; he no longer clutches it,
Don’t, her heart, he plain dutches it.
She swears at the sea,
The waves gave her hope,
Her intense words now foul,
His poetry was dope!
If, every tomorrow is a new day,
Let every tonight become nostalgic.
Run your fingers through my hair,
And make this ending tragic….