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A poem

By Conor MatthewsPublished about a year ago 1 min read
Photo by DIEGO SANCHEZ on Unsplash


She was exotic,

Fully formed from the formless,

The foreign lands,

Far from my own,

Of age and mystery.

She came up,

Out of the holy waters,

And my tongue stumbled,

To whip and lash,

And ensnare her heart.

She knew little of me,

And I less of her;

We were a perfect pair,

To love and pang,

To part worse off.

It has to be magic,

To her to be whisked away,

To misshapen lands,

By broken people,

To a world of ugly reflections.

At first she was my jewel,

Displayed and adored,

By those I wished to court,

A dazzling demonstration,

All of my own.

But I undid them,

Unravelled all their good,

And sting their bare soul,

With want and more,

For things I wish they never knew.

A plucked flower,

Mockingly buried in a vase,

Destroyed in preservation,

For the amusement of those,

Never to dirty their fingers.

I travel again,

In vain search for whom I found,

Once uncorrupted,

For lands breed people,

And from mine comes me.

sad poetrylove poems

About the Creator

Conor Matthews

Writer. Opinions are my own. https://ko-fi.com/conormatthews

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