Did I also mention i like to embarass myself with poetry?



This I write to you,
Dear friend.
This seemingly sincere plea.
This cry in the night you
hear only inside, but
for no true coincidence.
Can that thing be a lie?
That shapeless haunting thing?
Can it be
so changeable and fickle, yet
held in such undying certainty.
For many maybe so,
but for us we can never know.
Because what great lie would it be
if something so great can bow and break,
more easily than water,
and far quicker gone than
mid days turning shadow?
How great can it be?
If it is a lie,
which logic would say this,
the greatest lie of all.
My plea, my cry, my every wanting.
Can this lie inside?
Can this plea not move
And be held with such…
blatant disregard.
Can this lie in an un-moved heart?
Were this truly love,
I think not.

Did I also mention i like to embarass myself with poetry?



This I write to you,
Dear friend.
This seemingly sincere plea.
This cry in the night you
hear only inside, but
for no true coincidence.
Can that thing be a lie?
That shapeless haunting thing?
Can it be
so changeable and fickle, yet
held in such undying certainty.
For many maybe so,
but for us we can never know.
Because what great lie would it be
if something so great can bow and break,
more easily than water,
and far quicker gone than
mid days turning shadow?
How great can it be?
If it is a lie,
which logic would say this,
the greatest lie of all.
My plea, my cry, my every wanting.
Can this lie inside?
Can this plea not move
And be held with such…
blatant disregard.
Can this lie in an un-moved heart?
Were this truly love,
I think not.