You need to be a past,
not a thought creeping up in my mind,
all the time.
How would I hold his hands in mine
after writing to you the sweetest rhymes?
You terrorize all my perception
and leave me aching alone in exile.
Just to come back again,
Repudiate all your impishness
while I accuse you of vile.
But I need to put an end to them.
Let this page be our manuscript
Of days I've spent
thinking about you and
how my name would sound
slipping out of your lips.
The sun shone too bright,
and blinded me to run to you.
This infidelity is a silent feud.
I know it'll return me to my rues.
But how can one ignore all the signs
even the birds seem to mourn?
I'm an inquitous intolerent idiot
who, maybe, loves to end by scorn.
So, I'll sit in a barrel
reading my friend's amends.
Here comes the last of our manuscript
And I unheartedly write:
'The end'.