Form: Decastich
Some days I think love will make everything
seem like I'm floating on violet clouds to see
the girl with the sweetest smile sitting upon
the rose briar swing where we used to dally.
Then I recall she does not love me and cry,
clouds turn to bittersweet mists of memory,
faded linens tattered by the winds of time,
the echoes of laughter are now a lament,
as I sit on the swing, a haggard shadow,
and wonder where the girl has gone
©JGFarmer2009
A Garret Poet 