silly hair band
I sit at the river bank.
I feel no smile, itβs all truly frank.
For far too long I have been a pseudopositive tank.
I feel the water,
run down my hand.
Like when I first held my daughter,
like when she tied to me a silly hair band.
I return home.
Work the next morning.
I feel alone,
I attend the evening-ly mourning.
I go back to the river,
the water is shiny as silver.
It is not the same as yesterday.
My next of kin
she is one with the sea
as is the water of yesterday.

Damn, what is this? I thought you only write poems which leave girls a blushing mess, but now it seems your poems can leave them a crying mess too. πππ
oh-