The troubadour sings of dying love.

There were no flowers
but there was the
drowning pool.
She loves me
she loves me not,
she loves me,
she ....
sorry it’s not
this one, she’s drowned.
Okay! Here’s another one!
She loves me,
she....
nope not this one....

Reviews

[barleygirl]

I realize you're a simple, straightforward writer, so bear with me while I try to describe what went thru my head as I read your poem. Instead of going from one meaningless nondescript pond to the next, trying to find the particular meaning your poem seeks, I saw the USA stuck in it's rash of daily deadly shootings & how we're afraid to refer to shootings specifically anymore becuz there are so many over the years, we can't remember distinguishing features. The parallel would be that your narrator is going thru ponds like we go thru bullets (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[andrew mitchell]

I try to do clever simple. Thanks for your views. I suppose my thoughts are work related along the lines they like my work they hate my work etc. Getting a hard time at work, thanks Margie.

[mattavelli]

Hello, Andrew! :)
You're really using up the ladies here. Haha
This was a fun read.

[andrew mitchell]

Just my wicked humour for the day, thanks for stopping by.