Naught But a Fantasy
Naught but a fantasy,
Fading to memory,
A beautiful daydream,
Night overshadowed.
Myth that he loved me,
'Twas flirting and only,
A lie for ensnarement,
To him was amusing.
No longer believing,
This heart now is grieving,
For the sweet dream met death,
And is buried within.
👁 10💬 0
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.
Log in to leave a comment.