with a compass, I draw for you a perfect circle
the arcs were always connected
between two, without me
blind, I refused to see
no longer do I try
to insinuate myself into your heart or
my love into your circle
it was my imagination...
that this verde valley interfered with
your love for the mountains North
what starts without anything
ends with nothing
what starts without feeling
ends my belief
what starts without fire
ends less desirable
more so, when you name your price
Poetry by M.J.B. is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License
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