Full rounded heart,

Eyes that are sore with weeping,

Dark like and arrow piercing,

And ever the hand is writing.

 

You draw yourself, so many new lines.

Role after role you sketch, and toss away.

 

Mind that is ever writing

My own hard epitaphs,

Blaming my eyes for weeping

Over dusty photographs.

 

The past is a well told tragedy

And you are telling it again and again.

Can you not let it gradually

wash away with the tears, like rain?

 

You cling to sorrow like a torn, sad toy.

Sucking out the last stale flavours.

There are times in your life you could yet enjoy.

Even now, the portrait wavers.