Pardon, love, they haven’t tasted you

Pardon them who drool over cherry wine,
say champagne’s a bottle of stars divine,
get drunk on the moon and quaff sangria,
seek fancies in sips no dearer than dimes.

Pardon, love, they haven’t tasted you.
Pardon, love, they don’t know.

Pardon them who dread a bungee fall,
who fall in sleep and wake of appal,
have slept on beds with forgotten needles,
know papercuts, hangnails and cat-paw mauls.

Pardon, love, they haven’t seen your face falling.
Pardon, love, they don’t know.

Pardon them who fleshly pleasure seek,
of chocolates who taste, of lust who reek,
who loathe a stare that makes them fall,
their grounds though shaky, feet though meek.

Pardon, love, they haven’t known your embrace.
Pardon, love, they don’t know.

Pardon them who want off planes to jump,
to watch the world through falls that pump
blood in their bosoms so they may know,
how hearts can race before they land in dumps.

Pardon, love, you have never loved them.
Pardon, love, they don’t know.

Pardon them who once of mirages spoke,
who walked on dreams before they broke.
Through deserts that desiccated them to shreds,
they wept at the hell illusions cloaked.

Pardon, love, you haven’t left them.
Pardon, love, they don’t know.

Image Credits: Bing

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Read more: Poetry