i will sing of many things
as any good bard must do
bringing so much to life
with only the sound
of my voice
i could sing for you, too
softly, of a man with
daisies braided into
long hair and tucked behind ears
would you take these flowers
that i have picked
even if my hands shake
and their true meaning escapes me?
poor little bard,
i say to myself,
scrubbing tear tracks from pale cheeks
always singing of love
until his voice cracks and breaks
but never truly experiencing it
of course, there’s a certain
poetry in the persistence
of a wound such as this
though, metaphor be damned
it fucking hurts
but there’s no blood to sop up
nothing to bandage or splint
and at the end of the night
i am still left alone
something that feels like
your name on my tongue
and i want to tell you
so many things
like how beautiful you are
like how i’m sorry i let
this infatuation get so far
and grow so large
and i want you to know
that a bard with a broken heart
will yield no coin
but i’ll keep singing for you
anyway
because, my love
the least i can do
is immortalize you
if not in my arms
then through words that will
survive long after i have
returned to the ground
and isn’t that worth something?