There is a turmoil, living within, which isn’t mine.
It smells the incresent rainfall and it dreams of a crooked teeth.
Eyes and silence, through which it talks.
And it fears the things, the moonless night tells him.
'Sun won’t come for you'.
The night only tells the truth.
And unlove isn’t a word.
There is no medicine for melancholy.
A world woven out of terrible loneliness.
A world shining, shimmering splendid, shown .
And a turmoil living within.
Share This Poem
This Poems Story
What do you do when can't have her?