I didn’t know, I could love you so. My single rose. Plucked yet still somehow grows. I didn’t know. No lyric prepared me, no single prayer could ever have saved me. Love, like a dragon’s lair something I saw now not so sure was there. And what use am I? When you can have the whole entire sky. Every sheen and hue remind only of you. To what purpose or what point was I even born? When I am left so forlorn. Grateful only once you’re gone. As if all the birds conspired of you just so there could be a dawn. For all that is left of you is in song. Yet sometimes still, in a stifled sigh or yawn I can catch you sideways. But only during cloudy afternoons on Fridays.
Where conspiracy theories meet feminist theories. (And sometimes there's poems).