NEVER TO BE MET

I am as a bottomless cup half-filled
left in solitude on a shadowed shelf,
its nectar ever rippling, never stilled,
by touch of gentle breeze upon itself.

I am a poem of nuances ungrasped,
whose meaning is but dimly understood,
made to conform, its ode so tightly hasped
by rigid minds imprisoned in blind hoods.

I am a passion turned to tender love,
a memory that walks forgetful mind,
the sorrow in the song of unpaired dove
ever to love, be bound, but cannot bind.

I'm woman left in sorrow to beget
the dreams of meetings never to be met.©
                                  ~RAC  ~ 4 -79~