You’re No Cleopatra


I dream in technicolor.
I’m old fashion
by believing in honest love with a passion.
While ashing with some friend
I remembered long ago
the snow over a place in Italy
symbolizing the end of a city.
Just a city really. 
If a thing of beauty
is a joy forever
why are we not still together?
We were clock work.
Now the clock won’t work.
A bit out of sorts
I’m argue it’s not my fault>
I argue chivalry is alive
albeit with less drive.
Perhaps due to “this”.
Relationships are the eye of a storm
with fury at its beginning
and their end.
But I’m a machine
I keep trudging.
At an impasse
we encountered a sleeping boulder
that’s not budging.
We took different trails.
A failure of some love
that others imagined we had.
A Dali painting
with clocks so dry
that they melt.
We can’t be trapped in time.
I felt that maybe I had been dealt
a poor hand by God.
Too black to be accepted
too honest to be believed
too loving to abandon you
so easy to deceive.
But I’m old fashion.
Roman Holidays make me believe
in love with a passion.
Honest;y
sometimes I liken myself to Antony.
Betraying another
turning my back on safety
until…
finally..
By the one I thought I loved most
I’m abandoned

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