She is a Poem of Eliot

Every night at a pub,

I see her, the girl with the blond hair

and blue eyes, a beauty to behold.

Her gaze draws me in,

and I can’t help but steal glances.

If you ask me what are the eyes

They were the first eyes I ever saw

I can see the heavens in them,

a glimpse of something beyond this world.

She drinks and she dances,

laughing with friends and shouting out loud,

“I don’t miss you!” she proclaims.

She seems so happy, so carefree.

But as the night wears on,

and the pub closes its doors,

I find her sitting alone,

tears streaming down her face.

I ask her why she’s sad,

but she only sobs, “I don’t know, I don’t know”.

And I wonder what demons haunt her

when the lights go out, and the night grows cold.

For every night at a pub,

I see her, the girl with the beautiful eyes,

and I know that she’s more than just

the drinks and the dance, the shouts and the tears.

She’s a mystery, a wonder,

and I’m drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

She works in a post office, a place of mundane tasks,

Sorting letters, delivering mail, a routine she fulfills.

But there’s a spark in her eyes, a light that shines bright,

A warmth in her smile, that touches all who she meets.

I visit her sometimes, to catch up on night life’s tales,

Sharing stories of the night’s mysterious veil.

She laughs and says “Really?”,

Her laughter like music, an enchanting score.

In the evening, I see her by the beach, jogging with grace,

A silhouette against the sunset’s golden rays.

Her feet pound the sand, a rhythm of her heart,

A warrior from the start.

And as the sun dips below the horizon, she appears again,

A fairy fish, dancing away into the depths of the pub.

The day is done, and the night comes calling,

I see her smile, her laughter, her light never falling.

And then the dark midnight.

She is a poem of Eliot, elusive and enigmatic,

A masterpiece of words, waiting to be read.

Her lines are like puzzles, waiting to be solved,

A labyrinth of meanings, waiting to be led.

Each time I read her, a new layer unfolds,

A deeper understanding, waiting to be found.

Her words are like whispers, hiding in the silence,

A treasure trove of secrets, waiting to be unbound.

Between the lines, lies a world of emotion,

A symphony of thoughts, waiting to be heard.

Her phrases are like brushstrokes, painting a picture,

A canvas of imagery, waiting to be observed.

She speaks of love, in vague and abstract terms,

A promise of hope, waiting to be fulfilled.

Her commas and pauses, hint at deeper meanings,

A revelation of truth, waiting to be revealed.

So, I read her again, and then once more,

Each time, a new discovery, waiting to be found.

For she is a poem, a work of art,

A masterpiece of words, waiting to astound.

…