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THE POET by Andrianna Solomonidou The birds in crimson have long stopped chirping. Was Love a fire or nothing but a taste? Painfully is the heart’s mirror breakingbefore Love’s name will now be written “late.” An eyelash in the face of craziness, yet she is still dancing and she still sings the shadow and remembrance of her fullnessnow she is a butterfly without Wings It was enough that he had looked at her with eyes full of trips and color and soul. It was enough that he had talked to her with lips full of notes and stars and gold. She knew life would always be a sonnet, for she hadn’t loved a man, but a poet.
