This is the love I fail to say.

This bouquet of gray,

Will never be on its way,

And arrive at bay.

From far far deep,

I write the love I weep.

Memories always seem to creep,

Leaving me to fall down the steep.

The truth lies in my poetry.

I write it for you solely,

Never knowing if these thoughts,

Will ever pass my knots.

But I'm arranging a script,

To let this off my grip.

But I guess the tears I drip,

Makes it harder to slip.