A Toast
A toast, to those who’ve felt the thief,
To steal the kiss of breaking leaf,
To worship of the waning bloom,
Regardless of fair reasons swoon.
This is to feeling less than you are,
To tears held dear, although you swore
That they won’t hold that place again,
Where whispers tear the hope in twain.
Raise your glass to sweet revenge,
To feeling wronged, to swear again
That hateful wish won’t go unheard,
A scream instilled in single word.
This goes out to blissful days
To worry soon forgot in sway,
To claim the streets and shout your words,
A joy unbound and seldom heard.
This is for nights that strain the stitch,
To quake the heart with desperate itch,
To hope that those whose heart you knew
Will feel the night as cold as you.
This one’s for the beat in your chest,
The tearing force that blinds the best,
The rose and all its thorns is of
The blissful hurt of knowing love.
