There is a melancholy woven into exhales,
The fumes of heartache stir in your brew.
And I wonder why the somber flavor,
The stale aftertaste of lingering rue?
Your language is lovely but its sound so sad,
Like the bloom of roses on thorny vines,
Curling themselves into the curves of the tongue,
Where they melt away from papered lines.
Why are stories more endearing framed in rhyme,
Their romantic undertones always incomplete?
Because what is a poem without a melodic accent?
But a beautiful, clumsy way to translate heartbeats.





