when he spoke of a rose <br /> he spoke of me <br />when he spole of heaven <br /> and hell <br /> and emrald green waves <br />he spoke of me <br /> the love that he feels <br /> and the pain that <br /> i caused <br /> he spoke of in lines <br /> of sweet poetry <br />he wrote of a war <br /> one he would not win <br />of marrage and lust <br /> gone like the wind <br /> riding on wings <br />of a thousand doves <br /> love has left him <br />alone and glum <br /> yet he still writes <br />sonnets of <br /> love and war <br />words of heaven and hell <br />still flow like streams <br />of emrald green waves <br />they still fill pages <br /> and lines apon lines <br />notebooks of sonnets <br /> and sweet gentle rhyms <br />he still writes of roses <br /> that bloom in winter time<br /><br />casandra jacobs<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/still-writes/
