She Is Poetry and Tears

I use to write poetry endlessly, for she...
was the epitome of what true happiness could be.

Trapped in a cloud of imagination
Rain drops of intrigue, getting soaked in fascination.

For she was a dream of mine, but there she was.
Reality in its purest form, sobriety after years of drugs.

I kissed and held her close, for as long as I could.
But the seed in her womb from another stole her away from me for good.