Your curls, your smile, your lovely eyes,
the way you walk, the way you dance
enslave me; yes, I've lost my heart;
if only love could stand a chance.
I hold your photo, lined with age,
and watch the movie tapes of you:
you died so many years ago;
it's hard to take, but sadly true.
You didn't live to lose your youth
and you shall never age a day;
if I had met you, would you have
been kind? But I can never say...
Jack Horne enjoys reading and writing poetry.