Where to my poet has in nightfall fled?
His verse still courses through my veins, inked red.
That he would not stay long, this much I knew;
His lips were silent, with the strain turned blue
Whenever questioned. “I will make things right”
Eviscerating prelude to his flight.
No more. This time I will not wait. Enough.
Will grieve for once and then, will learn to laugh
At my own wayward heart for hoping still
For his return. Such guile has served me ill.
No longer will his violet be to seam
In feigning rhyme, then cast off on a whim.
Those eyes of indigo forewarned the lie,
His sole bequest in place of a goodbye.
I’ll tear the curtains down, bid light in,
Let forlorn chambers flood in mournful green –
Surfeit of life, where all that’s left to hold
Are empty scrolls of stories yet untold.
I’ll watch them yellow and then turn to ash,
Make no attempt to save one word or rush
To pour onto those borrowed pages spleen.
No. Let this anguish take its due unseen.
With bitter orange I will lace my drink
And let it jail my tongue, my sorrows sink
Until I cross the threshold of this day
And blunder incoherent from its flay.