Elle, with the arms outstretched
as a ballerina, balanced
waiting for the slightest gust
to decide if the time is now
or the cards have more to play

A girl with a foreign taste,
and you, the most tender heart
and yet, already taken, her loss,
although you would exchange
in an instant, destroy this all?

Life, the most precious gift
and the innocent, relies
on mother’s milk, drying up,
like your love, lost, in empty halls,
shadows of a brilliant mind

A million miles from this, she said,
where no one understands,
the touch of your hand, the casual glance,
their meanings beyond, leading
to the room I don’t belong

If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!

By cyncoed

Old & Welsh

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