Earrings, shoes, socks,
Ears, hands, and eyes
I comprehend and feel, the same,
Not merely once, not just twice

Literature and history repeat,
One witnesses this a lot,
She's not a myth, she exists,
The Lady of Shalot

Most have a story,
An epic or atleast a novella
Most are one or the other,
Either hapless Pip or Estella

So personal, so intoxicating,
To others merely gossip juicy,
Only you know the kick,
Of having your Lucy

Is this also my destiny, my fate,
Dried flowers, weathered stones
That my heart too, alas
Be interred with my bones. . .