Saturday, June 10, 2006

The Old Flame

Years ago, when our minds were young
A spark of "like" had begun
An ounce or two more than friends
But the feelings were quiet then.

Now, as we see, the tiny flame dying
And decide to stop trying
To keep the old secret in
We let it all out from within
But too late, alas!
Our chance, gone, our time has passed
And it seems like I'm still waiting
The truth of unchangeable past, I'm hating
That I could turn back time I wish
For my love ceases to diminish
Even though you don't feel the same
Even though you think I'm playing games;
Every day when my eyes meet yours
I see that red line I must never cross
But im straining to keep from you
This unsatisfied love, so true.
If only circumstances didnt hinder
Or embers of the fire didn't linger
Then we could move ahead, just fine
But is life ever that divine?
All these years I have longed
For you to right all my wrongs
Old freind, first love,
I still haven't got enough
Of wandering back to years ago
When we had a chance, but no
We tripped on our feet, look where we are
Worlds apart, our love so far.
And today, as I sit with you
Our differences become so few
Wishing you will sweep me away
And say the words I want you to say.

Though we may walk our separate ways
And end up in a separate place
Deep in my heart I'll always know
That this love, could only grow.

Just stop, and look at me
The way I do, set me free
Accept this love that my hearts sends
Take me now, old friend.

1 comment:

Imperfect said...

idk y i wrote this poem. it was a long while ago...and well i was a different person then.
things have changed.
but i wanted to show how strong emotions can reap some readable poetry. i thought it a good piece, even though i no longer relate to it. i hope some1 out there does, though.
thanks. come back soon!


when language like bubbling streams flow

when words are laid down to fit like lovers' hands

when you feel the essence of the poet from within

when swirling thoughts are caught in the net of rhythm

when images reel as you read

when pen and paper create a symphony

then, it is poetry