by Richard Vince
It was love, or it wasn’t;
But maybe it was never that simple.
Knowing her height would have
Made visualisation easy, and yet
I kept her in her frame, in
The perfectly painted context
She crafted from her world.
It was real, or it wasn’t;
But maybe it was both,
The same thing looking different
When seen from different lives.
Or perhaps we both saw
The same thing: a way out.
It was true, or it wasn’t;
But maybe she ceased to mean it
As I began to believe it.
Were the tears we shared
A summer evening shower
To wake her from a daydream?
It was her, or it wasn’t;
But maybe she was simply human,
Growing away from the person she was
Just as I believed I knew her,
Becoming herself, her own being,
Realising she owed me nothing
Before I did.
Posted on 04/01/2017
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 04/04/17 at 11:33 AM|
This poem holds a myriad of truth. It is an indictment on all those who dared to love.
|Posted by Rob Littler on 04/06/17 at 05:08 AM|
I'd go with NeverWas.
|Posted by Anita Mac on 04/13/17 at 12:09 AM|
I think perhaps in hindsight you have a good read of it. This is... so very many things that I can't bring myself to leave it all here. Wonderful.