Tick, tick, tick,
the sound of convention-
the ticking of a clock as time
passes by, second by second.
Each second is a second you’re with me.
Alas, as convention as that would be, you’re only with me
in my mind. Un- conventionally,
my mind is where you’ll only be.
the losing of ones soul- is that convention?
the feeling that i feel now, forever?
some may say that to lose ones soul
is carefree- or to lose ones my so soulfully.
yes dear you, plague in my mind
and soul- no feeling left behind.
This my love, may as be convention,
if convention was to fall,
Upon ones first sight.
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Comments about this poem (Convention by Matthew English )
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