When I'm awake, and so is she,
I'll picture her beside the sea,
The gray wind blowing through her hair,
Weighed down with worry, trace, and care --
And know I don't regret the past:
What she gave me, or I gave her,
Just that it wasn't meant to last,
And, at the last, I couldn't
Save her
Like this:
Like Loading...
Tagged: Tags Poetry
Published by Beleaguered Servant
Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.
View all posts by Beleaguered Servant
