Is love possibly like a wilted rose
trying it’s best to grow roots that
long to bloom.
Or is it given to change like
a weather vane twisting and
turning on the crest of winds
Maybe it’s like the deepest
secret that nobody knows, a
bud within a bud of such
renown just wanting to
explode into sound like
a finely tuned instrument
found by two strangers
who were always alone.
Contented I let love rise
from within and underneath
it all found my folly turned
to hate and resentment for
love, so I let it die.
Then you came from I know
not yet where as you entered
my heart a mystery you
I stand obliged and awkward
to love you but I do thus content
I know of no other way but
to fall deeply in love with you.
You sleep beside me and I watch
your perfect form as your hand
lays across my chest and my heart
aches for more of you to always
be there as perfect as you are.
Oh how I’ve loved thee and been
despised with so many complex
twisted and stubborn prides
wanting always to take you
as my bride.
Is love that corrupt to disallow
me to be part of it though fleeting
it has been in my life.
Now I hunger for it still and will
until my dying breath and like a
sweet bouquet loves content in
my memory of you.
© Copyright by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved
He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.