The Walk of the Unrequited Lovers

To think of spring 

in the dewy, humid morning 

when love is brand new 

and cherished like the sky of blue

she walks in front of you 

not knowing where to begin 

and where to end 

she lends 

her hand


then she begins to disintegrate into sand 

what a lovely band 

of joy, suffering, and the essence of time

Time is only of the mind

Love is only an illusion of mine 

This poem is about: 


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