Fictional

If the world could be so perfect as the painters
And the novelists always have tried to have
It be, your hand would be in mine, and we'd
Have threaded our way down the bluff
To find a dappled patch of grass beneath
The trees beside the river, and we would
Have brought some food, and we'd be
Talking about who knows? Almost anything,
And I'd have shrugged off forty years, and
You'd no longer fear your mother. I would
Peer into your eyes, as I always have wished
I could, and, in them, I would see a love which
Was the same as mine contained, and, though
The world above the bluff would writhe in pain
From imperfection, we would know tranquility,
And that time that we were allotted would
Stretch to infinity. Our love, ill-suited to
The daily news, would thrive artistically.
Novelists and painters could portray us.
We'd be fictional, but fictional perfection
Would be better than this sadness: separation,
Which we both acknowledge is reality.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 90 times
Written on 2017-05-17 at 13:42

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