From the sunshine-cloaked whispers of August
To the icy throes of January,
My heart of glass decided it would trust
His deep-sea eyes shrouded in mystery.
Infatuated with a masquerade—
For the sage was a fool in disguise—
I crafted odes only to watch them fade,
And his proverbs, I discovered, were lies.
It shattered my soul to know he loved me not
And that ink was wasted on dead daydreams
Which, like daisies, withered in the parking lot;
And the two of us fell apart at the seams.
Because the past is something I cannot undo,
I’m writing this to forget about you.