Weak is the flesh,

Just hope, sometimesI get it right.The pleasureThat good writing gives,Still holds of loveThe true delight.

Your presence,Yet I see no face,Nor coming graceNor soul of lace,Yet, feelings raceAnd I think I know youFrom some distant place,Where Souls sometimes meetAs hearts beat, at a faster pace,Coming together,Even without ever,Being, face to face.

The things, I feelThe most,Life goes by so fast!And yet,You seem to lastSustaining me,Perhaps knowingIt is you,I love the most.

Not interested in money,From flower to flower,Flips, does she,In her life’s danceShe’s a conformist,Not a sinner or a spinner,Not even worriedAbout what’s for dinnerJust goes from day to day,Nonchalantly, freeHow lucky we would beIf our lives were as simpleAs the life of the Busy Bee.

And I’ve loved you in the secret,Hidden cave of my delight,And I never, never told you,But you never, never, asked,Why whenever I would hold you,Time just didn’t seem to last,For there was no painful present,And no memories of the past,And the only thing that mattered,Was that you were mine, at last.

Loaned to me,For a poem to writeAnd then, to become,My only friends?Is that enoughAttention, protectionAgainst,Time’s revenge?True,Words accompanyThoughts,But what they,Can’t doIs take your hand,Hold you upWhen you’re feelingA bit sad,Or totally lostAnd blue,Give you a tight hugJust to remind you,You’re still human, too.