Casanova, where art thou

'T was a mask.

The golden mask,

that made him

Casanova.

The mystery,

the charm,

the flame,

the poems.

The poems that made me his.

'T was just the words.

'T was Casanova.

Who is he now,

now that the mask

lies thrown before my feet?

And he is gone...

Was it not,

after all,

a desperate try

to be free?

One last hope,

he could be

who we all realised he's not.

He can't be Casanova.

For Casanova lies before my feet.

The longing,the love.the seduction.

The Beauty that was left for me.

Casanova never flees. 

Not even when he runs out of words.

He lingers, silent and bewildering,

in this new form of poetry.

Reasons I need not to hear.

It is the fact, and that is clear.

So I suppose, If he allows me to say so,

his act is over.

The curtain closed,

no need to hover.

'T is Casanova,

the best part of him.

Reviews

[Kyle]

I like this. The graphic and color is great. The words are nicely descriptive. I think the length could have been a little less though since this appears slightly wordy.

Very nice overall though.