Silk and Denim

@Uootem

Poetry is such wasted thought
like futile stars falling down to obscurity
and the crushing fury of emotions found in a storm
for it is merely the desire of things forbidden
yet somehow forms the hope of such ideals
as the poet dreams with such recklessness.

He feels a soft touch of silk... love remembered
she thinks it more of denim... a long ago friendship
yet, was it really anything more than dull leather...
strange how time gives each their own perceptions.

Perception verses poetic banter, in a remotely eerie way
why does he need to communicate what he feels at all?
does she, as I, need such trivialities...?
does his pen, due to lack of these, suffer...?
how could it not, I say, with such a blind mouth.

Memory requires nothing of the bard to survive
but she laughs and believes surely I jest
for she have forgotten the memories... he has not shared such writings
others too would laugh, but believe nothing, for they know not his plight
so is memory's survival in this heart... and at such a cost!

Would I choose to hope for such survival
she thinks the change caused by time's passing is normal
the poet still remains silent... giving nothing to sharing
and answers to his yearning still slip through inquisitors nets.

She sits there silent now, with nothing to say
and he speaks! What a wonderful contemplation of words
"the memory of her love is vital, with importance to me".
"I know not of fulfilled hopes, but with yearnings I am rich"
she however, are that of a different kind
trying to forget what he cannot"
how could the poet decipher such a mess!

She thinks them more of two separate worlds
he, again silent, thinks them constantly connecting
for what is a poem about something so long since passed?