Italian Poet

Unrelenting dark rain
Drenches the downcast heart;
But the days would seem pleasant
And not sorrow-tinged
If I could only forget
The allure of her eyes
And the scent of her hair:
Then I would not dream foolish dreams
And I would not reel in such despair.

Lovesick for prolonged months,
I fear I’m becoming an Italian poet.

by Uriah Hamilton

Comments (3)

Buon divertimento! Ciao Deana
nothing so terrible about becoming an italian poet, is there? hehe. loved it
This is a good one, loved it.