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April 21, 2021

Treasure Island (A poem)

Photo by Roberto Nickson on Pexels.

 

My eyes are blank,

two canvases waiting

for the brush-stroke

and my lover’s pallet.

I live in a studio

near a pond in winter,

where still waters run deep.

Frozen, half-asleep,

a work-in-progress,

dreaming of a palpable spring.

You glided through the night,

thick ice layers beneath you,

carrying a torch,

that red-hot fire.

Lips as smooth as daffodils,

you planted seeds,

but there was no water

for the fruition of your words.

Nothing grew.

Empty promises hung

like buds on trees.

It was a long month,

cold and no wonderland.

You tell me love is like season,

it comes and it goes.

I loved you like an eternal summer.

I am not that incurable winter

you speak of.

I am an Island,

with treasures buried

beneath the sand.

Dig deeper, my love,

and you may find a goldmine.

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