The Poem That Never Was
THE POEM THAT NEVER WAS
My love, I had promised to write you a poem
A poem about colorful butterflies and rainbows
About rainbows in my dreams
And butterflies in my stomach
Just that I thought butterflies are better drawn
And rainbows rather painted
And most of those dreams were wet anyway
Wet of spring rains yet had the warmth of summer
I was meant to write you a love poem
One alluding to cupid’s magical arrow
And the melodious tunes of robins and winds
I wasn’t bound to forget the gold of autumn
But I just thought that cupid is best in fairies
And I promised me to catch you a live robin
But now that I have you, I won’t write poems,
I won’t wait for cupid’s arrow, I have mine
You shall release spring rains as my vulgar dreams come true
At my nest you can actually sing better than robins,
It will definitely save me the horror of swallowing butterflies
Am sorry my love, for the poem that never was
The rainbow never formed because the love still is!
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