Waltz For Zizi
A Poem And You
This life, it somehow feels painted on my skin.
I see you holding the mighty brush,
putting the blue sky on my chest.
My arms are rivers, I place them around you,
my fingers are the waves, that dance on your back,
but you are hot, you're like the sun, and I'm evaporating.
You notice something odd, I have no heart
or is it silent? , broken by another girl,
so you paint me a heart, in the palm of my right hand
but it isn't mine, it is your heart.
You need some red, but the brush has only blue,
you know that lips are not meant to be coloured blue
so you lean and place your own lips on mine, for your kisses, are ridiculously red.
I remember now, why you hold tight that brush,
on your left hand, I watch, and see a ring.
You paint my life, in so many hues, because... because you are my bride.
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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