Fourteenth Day Of July – 2019.
When the last phase of the night began,
The sleepless poet upon his love-seat tired sat,
Deep in his soul broke loose the sadness of the unloved,
Only the nightingale upon the maple sitting heard his soul.
And she sang taking the pulse of his sadness as rhythm,
About the walls around his love trying to fly free,
Holding the hands of the Little Boss from his soul he loves,
Hearing the song, morning sitting in mother nature’s womb wept.
When walking around the poet felt those tears falling,
Upon him from the maple where the nightingale sleeps,
No sign he found of the bird as morning left in a hurry,
No bridge to noon he saw as baseball park filled his thoughts.
No thought can break his streak of
His Little Boss who unseen and unheard for him finds a way,
Through the digital magnificence to let him know,
Heard his heart, felt his love, but only in sixth sense returns.
Evening and early night left without any remorse,
As night grown much older in front of him stars taught,
Another way to love his Little Boss unconditionally,
And in that little gladness in his heartbeat Soul danced.
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