Work of genius,
They say, looking back at her.
Who’s it for?
Who holds your heart?
Just a poem, says she- nothing more.
Are you sure?
But the description- at the start!
No, it’s nothing more.
No one it could be for.
It was Autumn,
Only just cold.
As he was last seen,
At least, by me.
That hair, never to be mistaken,
Was the last of him I was to see.
The first and last time he ever was mean-
So he never saw me breaking.
Just a poem, was he?
Just a poem, to me.
Your woven words are golden!
You speak of words unspoken!
They beam at her,
Lost in her words.
Who’s this about then?
Nobody, she says. Me head’s just with the birds.
Perhaps she should say… But she’s alone with her pen.
And it’s just a poem, to them.
Why does it mean so much to her, then?
It was a warm hand in spring,
His golden eyes closing over,
Bells soon to ring(?)
The way laughter did
At least, in my young mind.
In his?- Oh, the secrets!- Were hid.
‘Just a fling’?
I wasn’t one of that kind.
So, why not make him just a poem, to me. To me…
Because that’s all of him they’ll ever see.
So they looked up at her
Paled hearts; eyes of wonder.
Such love! They gasp.
Simple words, she blinks back.
You poor girl! They exclaim.
Just a poem, she repeats. A lover? – One thing I lack.
To my heart there’s a lock, not a clasp.
Nobody stops to think she’s not that tame.
Just a poem, none of it real.
Just a poem love, keep nerves of steel.
Just a poem, I repeated,
As my belly grew.
Just a poem did this to me
With no formal goodbye
And just a constant kicking to belly and to mind.
Just a poem, so I can’t ask why.
Soon- this reminder- they’ll all see.
This part of the poem was not written for them to find.
Just a poem- but it says positive.
Just a poem took all I had to give.
Just a poem! Just a poem! They cried.
A deceiver; now in plain sight!
They don’t understand,
He wasn’t just a poem to her
As he is to them.
He is now, not even a blur.
She can’t answer their demand;
The truth? He wasn’t her poem. He was her gem.
Just a poem, how they hate him so!
Just a poem, who never saw her belly grow.
A boy! Said the doctor,
As her final scream died.
The held him to her-
The poem’s son,
With a poem’s eyes;
But not yet the legs to run.
And the poems dark fur,
But not yet lips to tell lies.
The son of a poem, she loves him so!
Not just a poem, as her son can show!
And if that’s all her poem have to give… Perhaps onwards she can live.