Poem
Once, I was a poem---
A memory of a rose, ever-watchful
Of the orb, whilst angel’s trumpet fills the air.
Oh, sometimes then, I was a sweet poem---
The art of your heart;
‘Twas pure and simple, ‘cause that’s what I am.
The poem and I---fourteen lines
Of uncluttered life, warming the coldness of nights;
Relentlessly, rhyming to the sound of your breath.
A sonnet of love, you proudly wrote
Of me, but that was before…
You lustily engaged yourself, with a free-verse.
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