A Lonely Yorkshireman

The contradicting ramblings of a sodding old fool

Not for me

with 2 comments

A fair wee Irish lass there be,
eight of dress, short than me.
Smiling fair, soft brown hair,
button nose and filled w’ glee. 

She lights the room when enter, I
be staring at wee butterfly.
The sad, the pain, the solemn day
at once sent packing, on its way.

I yearn for touch that cannot be.
For love and ring, eternity.
Her heart been promised to a king,
of men, a gentle man is he.

Therefor I stare with heart at rest
once beating, toiling in my chest.
And stare , not touch
And want, not have
She loves, not me
Forever be
Her… there
Here… me

Go to! Thou cruel eternity.

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Written by lonelyyorkshireman

March 17, 2011 at 9:14 AM

Posted in Poetry

Tagged with , , , , ,

2 Responses

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  1. Kudos on finding such fantastic rythm, good solid start and a steady middle that gutters towards the end, then expires in a whisp.

    And it is a lonely soul who does not relate to unrequited love.

    Kudos on the whole bloody thing.

    Sharpie

    March 17, 2011 at 10:01 AM

    • Hi,

      Thank you so much for your kind words. I did not expect to have anyone comment on this as it’s just an outlet for my emotions and experiences.

      All the best
      L.Y.

      lonelyyorkshireman

      March 17, 2011 at 10:06 AM


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