by Ann Drysdale

A poem not found but diligently searched-for.
How am I? The term ‘star-crossed’ springs to mind.
Such states of one’s affairs are often best
Reflected by a literary find;
They’re never quite so neatly re-expressed.
The hope I dreamed of was a dream.  Quite so.
I cannot mind my wheel; my fingers ache.
Never give all the heart? I know, I know,
Having just made the selfsame sad mistake.
Love is a universal migraine; true.
Poets are sensitive. They understand.
Now I am facing up to losing you
And I want poetry to hold my hand.
Okay; ’tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved—but only just.
Visit Cinnamon Press at