Aforementioned (14/2/10) 

How cliché it is to start a poem with eyes,

But yours cannot wait until the end. 

So with this I'll begin, and carry on

Until my rhymes are complete, I intend.  

The aforementioned eyes, which I adore,

Are always piercing crowds.

I catch a glimpse through their fabric rapport,

And butterflies, once more, crowd round. 

You'll never be privy to this information,

This poem is one you'll not read. 

You'll consider me with no inclination 

Of my like, my want, my need. 

You quickly became my muse, 

And this is no mean feat. 

One of two, and first of both. 

Though my thoughts will remain discreet. 

I'll keep turning

Just like the planet that grips me. 

Just as you'll keep learning the rules

Of the game at which you played me. 

The player who meets his match

Is never too content. 

His match, when she meets him

Will take advantage of such an event. 

So I'll let you go and hone your skills

Your play is erratic yet your intent; sublime. 

Another muse will present itself soon enough

And in my poetry you're woven into every line. 

I'll find someone else who'll do. 

They just won't quite be 

You.

I'd forever live in those two months if I could,

And I know that if you could speak frankly you would

Tell me that it meant nothing to you,

And urge me to move on to obsessions new. 

For you, my Dear, are my addiction; 

Like drugs to Doherty, and to Shakespeare, fiction. 

With relentless resistance my heart, it tries

To carry my body once more to your eyes. 

Locked in battle, until one is dead

I find locking swords, my heart and my head. 

So as not to be dull I add an interesting twist;

I drink and I smoke, and I try to get pissed. 

My head cries: "No, just leave it alone,

Stop drunkenly calling and texting her phone." 

But the heart often wins and so I succeed, 

In drunk dialing her I satisfy my need. 

Even today, the battle rages on

Between logic and love, for one must be gone. 

I know which will win, for my heart starts to tire

And the flames burn colder with that burning desire. 

My head starts to win, the pump starts to slow. 

The blood once propelled, begins to go cold. 

For the day that your head wins over your heart, 

Is the day it stops beating as it has from the start. 

If I could, I would go back to that square

When I met you, so beauteous and fair. 

I'd ignore you, wouldn't even tell you my name

And hopefully things wouldn't turn out the same. 

I'd search for a girl, a logical choice. 

Then my head and my heart both would rejoice. 

In harmony they would welcome her name; 

Though my heart would secretly cry in shame. 

When I went back to that square my head forgot

Those eyes of yours but my heart did not. 

And though the logical girl will be my wife,

You, my love, have been my life. 

© Lewis Donaghy 2009 

Until the day you die,

Until the last tear cascades from those eyes,

I will love you.

Until the day of your death,

Until the artists draw your last breath,

And draw it they will,

I will love you.

Until you cease to be,

Until your God feels glee,

Until you're free,

I will love you.

In other words,

Until time itself implodes,

Because you could never die,

Not in my eyes.

Most can sense,

Few can feel.

Accepted as pretence,

Invented pre-wheel.

Most can look,

Few can see.

Like the fisherman's hook,

A cruel necessity.

Most can talk,

Few can convey.

An accent, a look, a walk.

All players in the fray.

Most can listen,

Few can hear.

Those eyes, they glisten,

Hydrated by fear.

Most can admire.

Few can love.

How I long for the erasure of your eyes

To come about inside my head;

Another day, another prize

Lost to the depths of the stirring Med.

You played it well! This much is true, at least.

Born in Heaven, you traversed through Hell;

Yet still you managed to appease the Beast

And through your voice came his final knell. 

The clock; it ticks,

The sands of time must obey the laws.

Submissive are we, to the rose bush’s pricks,

For its beauties blossom without flaws.

Such was your face,

Beauteous and bitter-sweet.

Your ailing spirit set the pace,

As the romantics fell about your feet.

You would cry for help, day after day,

Though the cries woefully would descend;

On ears not willing to pay

Heed to the inevitable end.

A goodbye, a tear, a drop of pain

Drips desperately from my soul,

As I bid you farewell and fade into the rain;

I remember those times of old.