Primrose

September 10, 2009

What’s the point of living

if love’s unrequited?

What’s the point of loving

when happiness is sighted?

But it cannot be touched

and there’s no way to fight it

And no way to hide it, either

and everyone knows.

Is there nothing to do

but live life in repose?

And let life become grey

like a wilting primrose?

*

I might as well be gone, I suppose.

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