Perfect sadness



/ poetry

18/8/2016 A poem about closeness and love and loss

A child's voice,

raised in song.

A crystal note

of a little girl.

High. Clear. Pure.


Her soul like tendrils,

gripping, climbing me

like a beautiful vine.

Is it me?

Is it I who calls her to me..?

Are we all pawns?


Sometimes we change places,

she will be the tree, and I the vine.

She the bucket, and I the water.

We meet and we pour ourselves out,

our colours merging and intertwining

to make beautiful splashes

of the brightest hues.

She in yellow, I in purple...

Sometimes we change places.


More often than not

we are same.


No-one winning this tug-o-war.

Her pull matching my push,

my pull commensurate to her push,

we are ever-so Newtonian.


A child's voice,

raised in song.

A single tear,


never falling,



in the corner of the eye

of fate.


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