These times are old yet new,
Troubled by wicked memories few,
Like petals decked in the morning dew,
Distant horizon masked by tresses that blew,
In such withering voids if you knew,
How much I now miss you.
What would you do now?
I sometimes longingly feel,
if I didn’t miss the chance,
that I so hopelessly blew.
Sometimes these reflections,
help reflect away life.
In this lonely perfection,
Hurt is soul’s carving knife.
It’s the criticism and the comments that keep a poet alive, so please oblige me with your opinion. All reviews positive/negative appreciated. Thanking you in anticipation of your valuable critique.