Sick, twisted hope
Which nurtures in me a
Delight in the impossibility
Of the unimaginable
Dashed and crushed
Sprinkled with a smidgeon
Of irony
Do I dare?
The wondrous is for the wonderful
While the grim is for the reapers
I too can write sonnets
To the souls of elbows
And verses to creasy knees
Tell me a truth, Iโll tell you a lie
Torn asunder by the prospect
Of belief
Dreams about dreams
Bitter and sweet
To tell a story…
Without words
Without shape
But thoughts
Of tomorrow and yesteryear
Of melancholy and things
That ought to be
Of things left unsaid
And girls that ought
To be me
Of notes of desire
That sighs
With a dying fall
Perhaps
Perhaps
Perhaps
Of languishes unspoken
And misunderstood
A ray, sliver
A drop, a chance
The naked trees scream
My name
โฆit was all a dream
Loved it really, it speaks to us writers in so many ways. Thank you for sharing ๐
Thanks, Haneen! ๐