The Face in The Crowd

Many a month has passed and yet, 
Not a word I read or heard from her, 
She who said I love her not, 
A truth so false it be, I’d call it rot.

’Tis but a story many a time retold, 
Yet each time the memory of her feels fresh, 
She who loved all but me much better, 
For it was I, not he of gold and glitter.

She’s not to blame, the pretty dame, 
Love is anything but one’s right to claim, 
She, of my dreams of five years past, 
She, for whom, I’d be but last.

I saw her face in the crowd today, 
And my heart skipped beats as it did that day, 
She, who broke my heart at first, 
She, who taught me the evil of this lovely thirst.

Yet, do I drink, through ink, this love, 
Poisons of stories and words untold, 
Of she, of summer nights and of gentle rain, 
Of she, who I know, will never come again.

Love, oh what an endearing game, 
Of lies and truths and immeasurable gains, 
Of games that often end in whites of a shroud, 
Of she, who was but a face in the crowd.