LETTERS
A letterbox thirty years old,
Collecting dust in dark and cold.
From a lover who never grows old,
So young and so bold.
He has a place deep in her heart;
Of her, he is a part.
Wonders what could have been,
If they married way back then.
She sits and thinks of the past,
Her love for him will forever last.
Gave her self freely his last night at home,
They gave no thought he would never come home.
All his letters she held to her breast,
Kissed each one as she lay them to rest,
In a box in her 'Hope Chest' now in the attic
Slowly she rises and opens the door,
Climbs the steps to her lover once more,
To read his letters and dream of his kiss.
She lives in her world without bliss.