Two Figures in Gray

We could be in England, in the tube,
Umbrellas in our hands. We have
That little derring-do. The tube,
This store, our separate homes,
In which we plod our lives away,
Diminishing not only our returns,
But also expectations. We, who
Never were, are done. You dare not
Be seen wanting me, and I, who'd
Rather not annoy you, lack the
Will to press my case, our case,
And draw you close again.
We pass. Sometimes, you smile
Weakly. We meet, but with
Others near, you sit in silence,
Lost, inert. In time, you'll pass
From view again, and I may
Cease to think of you, of my
Done dun love who had reached
Her stop and left the tube.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2017-07-17 at 13:47

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Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
Yeah, and so it happens in time. A Very sad poem with your usual flair.