#18 (Eighteen)

[Poem about both the age and the sonnet - I'll give a million cool points to who can specifically recognize the inspiration of this piece. DISCLAIMER: Cool points cannot be redeemed for cash, only compliments. - Theo.]




18.


Eighteen months later, I’m still at this desk,
Tallying the days since June Twenty-fifth.
I’m next to the phone, incase you should call.
Should you write, I moved it near the mail box.


I just sit and I stare… I double-take where,
I see familiar strangers with sun in their hair.


Eighteen months, over a year of my life.
Five hundred twenty days to be precise.
I’ve filled book aft’r book, this entire time.
I’ll run out of page ‘fore I keep you mine.


This case is hopeless, Yes, but regardless
The dream mixed with the memory
Producing endless poetry
Surpassing the beauty of reality


So you are heartless, Yes, so I know this
Slither, shadowed by gallant fantasy
Facts dissolve in attractive mystery
They live longer then us, in infamy.


Once… I write it right, I write.
“It will once… I write it right.”


When you leave your things, you leave an excuse,
To converse, return, what we’ve been reduced.
Words cannot tell how or what is true of:
When beauty lived and died as flowers do, love.


Someday, somehow, a letter will summarize
Immortalize passion that never dies.
I’m too much of a perfectionist
When its done I swear you’ll get it


But not this letter
I can do better.


The dream mixed with the memory
Producing endless poetry
Surpassing the beauty of reality
Facts dissolve in attractive mystery
Someday, somehow, a letter will summarize
Immortalize passion that never dies.


Once… I write it right, I write.
“It will once… I write it right.”



Oh, Eighteen

Months, your sunny blonde turned white.
Slither, Shadow, Six feet below sun’s light.


The dreams I had will eternally thrive
In publication of my written mind.


Once… I write it right, I write.
“It will once… I write it right.”