Oldie but goldie, Poetry

A mirage

She sits before me,

Mine to see,

Not to touch,

But to dream and

Walk away.

Icarus plunged

To the sea,

Famished by

Her ardour

Fodder for the sea

Of Darkness of rejection;

Never beating the Mirage,

Dancing on the burning

Sands of time,

Pulling my strings

With delicate hands


Onto the high rope.


For a memory

Keeps me crawling

And searching for

A tangible delusion

To mock an illusion.


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