I have died and come to life a thousand times,
the unprecedented sighs of June stand as witness—
why was the world made this way?
Do colors have no choice but to fade at the end of the year?
You blow soft, the words that stir me from oblivion,
I knew not I was at war with myself;
dawn is beautiful,
uninvited thoughts in return that haunt me at the end of day.
Let the rain fall,
let the rain fall down and wash away doubt;
sometimes it takes a stranger to reintroduce you to yourself—
I don’t possess the poetry to describe you perfectly on the page.
Photo credits: John William Waterhouse Painting, Pinterest
Posted for Writers’ Pantry @ Poets and Storytellers United