Mourning dew saturates your stone,
silhouetted memories buried within me.
Birds try to sing harmonic psalms,
only silent scores reach our ears.
It’s difficult to say the right words now
when it was easy to say the wrong ones.
Here I am,
talking to a rock.
Shows how desperate I am to talk to you,
when I never let you say your piece.
You’re probably telling me to smile,
It’s not what I want.
I want you to blame me.
How I could’ve been better;
for always lying; and
why you left me—
I was lost from the start
and you used to make it make sense.
Being special to you made me arrogant to everyone.
I’ve bargained with nothing, hoping it brought you back—
but you folded before you called my bluff.
If eternity’s bonds have locked you away from me,
then I will live long enough to find the key and join you.
"A tramp, a gentleman, a poet, a dreamer, a lonely fellow, always hopeful of romance and adventure." ~Charlie Chaplin