Winnie the Pooh
By: Kit Carson
There's a girl I love who I can't have near.
Her slender form a far off design that I shall never see.
Yet even now as I sit, I wonder whether it's all a product of my mind held dear.
The thought is loved, yet not what is to be.
I see red lips that remind of flame.
Though like the seasons how some color changed,
leaving nothing but timely quips about the old game.
Nothing left here now except that distant moment, how it aged.
I can hear the song calling;
it whispers to me on familiar winds.
The melodious notes falling,
on their deaf slacked jawed grins.
Simply put we love things we can't have with us.
We love things that won't hurt, maim, or bleed us.
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