PIH (17/09/1987 / )

Cobweb Collector

She was my escape.
The breath into my lungs.
That aeroplane that takes me to the exotic.
On a summers day, the refreshing rain.
My beautiful medicator. Savior to the pain.
The religion I can place my faith in.
My heart just a canvas.
Her love splashed me a new colour every smile.
Asking myself how did I survive before?
The message in a bottle on a deserted shore.
I am the vintage vinyl record in the attic,
that slowly lures dust after being forgotten.
Just call me the cobweb collector.
The vinyl she swore she would never grow tired of,
now sits alone, in the 3 storey house,
she and her husband grew fond of.

User Rating: 1,0 / 5 ( 1 votes ) 5

Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

Comments (5)

Great twist at the end...I quite enjoyed this one, and it carries a strong message. Do we ever really know who we are chatting with, at the other end of the net? Hugs, Dee
Love it! Great story in the poem. Zen
wow....wht a piece of poetry.... oh! ! its soooo good preets....keep it up.. Niks
This is another internet cheating by a 45 years old man. If there is one cheat, we cannot condemn outright internet, thro' which we have scope to learn many good things also.
Hey Preeti, this is a good one. Take it fom a real 62 year old man. I also wrote a poem on Chat love. I will put it up here sometime. Good job. Keep writing. Young people are our real future.