Self Centered

Books will never be written
On your features, on your disguises
Yet I feel I have read whole volumes
Dusty, leather bound, illustrated and indexed
Telling of your life and mysterious smile

If I was an artist I would cast you in bronze
And place you atop a fountain of champagne

I graffitied your name in the canyon of hope
On your birthday I threw lilies into the pond of the poet

I hid a horsewhip in a bouquet of geraniums
I buried my pen in the orange grove of Alexandria
All because of you
And the feelings I get throughout my flyblown frame

My bird so quiet, so self centred and far
Your cage is the land, your sadness the sky
I know of your brilliance, I saw it in the park
I know of your aloofness, I fear it every day

I hid verses of ancient poems throughout your town
Sappho, Li po, Catullus, Ovid and Horrace
This was my correspondence

Yet you preferred the poets themselves
Great stern busts hidden in mossy gardens covered in ivy
For you to run your smooth hands across
Staring stony eyes for you to gaze into
Would you have thought of me?
Or would you have heard that lone violin?
That soft Austrian waltz
And cried
Like a bird so quiet, so self centred and far...