Young Writers Society

I feel stretched, stretched across your field of view
I feel bent, bent like the mighty yew
I hear your calling, from across the distant shore
You never speak, you never adore

You came to me, if you remember
Back in the gloomy days of September
No hope there was back then
I was told to never love again

You heard about my demise in a school of cries
And only now do you realize that you forgot all the goodbyes
You should have thought sooner, that all would end
No more interference, with the painful mend...
No words shall play