Today's a fine day for a letter to you,
A seasonless love song, if only you knew.
But autumn, in sadness, has donned its attire,
With its cloak of the rain and the stormcloud's choir.
I try to recall you at each fleeting glance,
And on paper, I aim to have you by chance.
But truly, a draughtsman I happen not to be,
Your outline's lost, like contours at sea.
My visage, a poet's, in ruins it seems,
My beard overgrown, by my guitar, dreams.
With papers my desk is lavishly spread,
Ideas flutter wildly within my head.
Today's a fine day for your essence to pen,
In four clear-cut notes, not seen but then,
Remembering you is no longer my aim,
I'd search every corner, to call out your name.
So many cigarettes, their smoke fills the air,
Polluting the breath that we used to share.
And time on the clock keeps on marching ahead,
Far more than I'd thought, in my heart and my head.
Perhaps my beard hasn't grown out so wide,
And on my guitar, many notes have died.
Another cig lit, in the hope you appear,
But today, it seems, you won't be near.
Today's a fine day for a letter, it's true,
And though I've been here for a moment or two,
The ink has smudged papers in a scribbled array,
Leaving just doodles, where my heart lay.
YOU ARE READING
Poems of the Lost Autumn
PoetryDive into "Poems of the Lost Autumn," a collection of forty poems that whisk you away on a melancholic journey through the forgotten alleyways of love, loss, and longing. Each poem, akin to a seasonless love song, carries the tender weight of memori...
