The Lonely One

He wrote me a poem
in invisible ink,
expressing all his views.
Talked of his heart’s desire,
honest, uncorrupted news.
He wrote this in nights
he could not sleep,
dark times lacking hue.
Soaked pages in invisible tears
only his pillow knew.
But in days all shiny & bold,
the poem seemed to him old.
Invisible words vanish
in the Sun,
it’s the Moon who is
the lonely one.

© Milana Vujkov, The Lonely One, 2020

3 thoughts on “The Lonely One

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