Wilted Petals Poem by David DeSantis

"Beautiful deceit",
It's what I like to call her
For deceit is what I've been given
And in her its manifestation.

Her beautiful deceit
When I lay down
And push
Knowing full well,
Beauty is fleeting
But for now
It's mine to enjoy.

All the time
Fraudulent eyes
And in me
A willing accomplice,
As if together
Two disconnected
Batteries
That once were fully charged.

And I feel
Perhaps rightfully so,
That it is not me
Who deserves her.
For only do I have her
Which as an instance
Is less than I'd like.

But at one time
She was full time
And also,
unappreciated.
A flower as such
may rise,
But will never bloom
in certain conditions.

I should've known
When the women I knew:
"she is beauty! ' and 'how lucky'
I've only heard women
talk the same
of movie stars and models.

Then winter came
And I lost my flower
Who grew busy blooming
On another tree.
Now the remnants of what was mine,
are finite and in partiality
often
fleeting.

Yet even partial
I will take her
until displays of passion are no more
Because when I'm in
it is certain

I have never seen such a
beautiful deceit.


Copyright (c) David DeSantis