Us and We

Dear Escort,

 

He loves me
He loves me not.
The answer...

 

As I sit and ponder
And ponder and ponder
Heartache arises,
Guilt to rise by its side, 
Regret soars,
Until words are no longer open.
I myself are closed in. 

 

Fantasies are real.
The fantasy.
Real it is not.
For I reach up to plea his call
Only to find a mistaken storm 
In his wake,
With his wings unseen.

 

His wings.
Long and broad they are.
Strong enough to pick me up
And sail me 'round,
But yet,
Gravity always falls.

 

I was the one that told him not to fly.
I was the one to bind his wings,
Held them captive.
As if it pleased me.
La Belle Dame sans Merci 
I shall be called 'til death taketh thee.

 

But now,
Now he Flies! 
Wings no longer dragged down,
He Soars! 
Hovers high does he
And I shout with glee! 
Crying tears overjoyed.

 

Yes,
He Flies.
But perhaps, 
Without me.

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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