The endless day of pointless solitude,
Haunted by her apparition,
That bittersweet affliction.

How enigmatic,
Her flirt,
How ecstatic,
Her mirth.
And in her absence,
Its dearth.

Scores of women before and after.
None of them present,
Only her laughter.

That soft and understanding voice.
On her death, the angels will rejoice,
They rarely see such relaxed and elegant poise.

But to love an angel is to love a lie,
Unlike angels she's a cross-eye,
And no God does she live by.

Yet she follows her heart,
She does her best.
That tricky art,
Of battling unrest.

The cold summer breeze in her hair,
My head on her lap, without a care.
I long for her everlasting stare,
But her sad eyes look to the air.

Love is no nursing care,
It thrives in despair.

Disney thinks that love is peace,
But I await its sweet release.