The Art Of Questions

A question is a fruit
ready to be picked
and release it's nectar
at the first bite
of a knowing mouth
or else fall off the tree
of it's own overripe weight
to lie unpicked
on the ground
of indifference

'How much do you love me? '
withered on the tree
'How much could you
have loved me? '
brimming with
missed opportunity
lies unpicked
both unfulfilled
but what an improvement
that inquiry
would have been
a heartbeat ago

by alex haywood

Other poems of HAYWOOD (65)

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