Pens and Pages

She swirls around the same old swing, Like leaves that float and fly for a new breeze, The same park where benches lay adorned, The same garden of memories, of love and lovelorn... A gentle drizzle that comes every eve, Does make her not smile nor blink. She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors, A drizzle isn't for the child who dances in the storm. Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings, A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.

I tried to save him From the demon I knew I'd be. He came a little closer, Claiming his love for me. But all the men Who've ever loved me Have loved but only For a short time of Spring. Now in the middle of this storm When he still hasn't left, I wonder if he's real If he isn't a daydream. For I've heard of men like him But never really seen one. I've met men like him before But only In my poem.