In this barren field of forever,
There lies a fresh sprung sprout,
Buried under winter snow.

We call her promise.
A promise waiting to be kept,
Meant to last and blossom
To beautiful spring from
When seldom tears are wept.

I stand on my side of
This double-knotted obligation,
Pinkies crossed and hoping
The other endures the duration.

He calls it naivete,
That cynic over there.
I’ll do what I do and hope,
For the everlasting promise
Of fresh new change.

But before forever’s done,
Chances say I’ll be gone,
And in that double knot untied,
The lonely side left is one.

This entry was posted on Friday, April 9th, 2010 at 11:53 pm and is filed under Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.