I wish this pen was filled with blood,
Sucked from my every vein.
No words, No words, my sorrow can proclaim,
No words but the blood in my veins.
Squeeze out of me every dropp of blood,
Only they will the story tell.
That my tears could the whole world flood,
That my sorrow could outpour a well.
What a story my friend?
Can this paper hold?
If only you know my grief my friend,
If only you could read my soul.
A Monday lunch my friend,
Was the least you could have done for me.
If only I could have told you my friend,
How dear you are to me.
The places we visited my dear friend,
How will I visit them again?
The things we did my dear friend,
How will I do them the same?
Why did you not think of me my dear friend?
Why did you not cling onto my heart?
I cannot but bleed my dear friend,
When I remember our part.
The things we spoke of dearest,
How shall they come true?
The things we planned for dearest,
How can they happen without you?
I bleed dearest,
For that Monday lunch.
I’ll continue to bleed my dearest Pearlyn,
Until that heavenly Monday lunch.
Christian Eliab Ratnam
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/until-that-heavenly-monday-lunch/
