Upon Another Glance

A yoke on my shoulders,
Made of years that I lost.
I hated its burden,
so I wrote us a poem,
hoping in earnest to scatter the frost.
But it proved ineffective,
And the groupel continued.

When I wrote “I still love you,”
I tried when I read it,
To convince me of you.

And my poem:

It was all about you,
And the man you’d choose to pursue.
Caveat: he can’t be a fool.

But I’m a fool over you.


I could swear it was the end,
It was the end.
‘Cause I could see the book cover
Fold when you left.
But it was lucky for me,
And far better for you,
Its author came back,
to finish part two.

And it was all about you,
and the man you’d chose to pursue.
In his arms, wrapped and renewed,
You were the ink that kept my pen flowing.