Need

She is, as is air, when there, indispensable,
And, when not, my death. It's simple as
That. Words of hers warm me. Her face
Is my sun, so I freeze and I darken when
She is away. Do not think that I love her.
That verb is too weak, its suggestions of
Will, and of passing in time much too tame
For what I do. The true verb is need.
I must be with her if I'm to be.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 38 times
Written on 2010-01-14 at 22:44

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