LightSeeker
Bluelighter
It has been a while, but I think my voice is back:
This poem is a sin.
It is too late to wade
In the remaining day’s
Assured memoir.
The clock, in twist
Has handed not,
Or better granted
A last wish.
The pillow’s warm dew
You left while asking
If my name was yours,
If it was true.
The paramour to end all love
You were to be
I know you are,
Alas, nimis sero.
The hour has fled,
Remind the stones.
Your love had breath,
Turned to swan song.
A creeping image:
Of the April rain
Which fell when you
Shoved me away.
His last good bye,
Your epic’s cry:
“Not this, not this, not this!”
This love (though never ending)
Dies.
This poem is a sin.
It is too late to wade
In the remaining day’s
Assured memoir.
The clock, in twist
Has handed not,
Or better granted
A last wish.
The pillow’s warm dew
You left while asking
If my name was yours,
If it was true.
The paramour to end all love
You were to be
I know you are,
Alas, nimis sero.
The hour has fled,
Remind the stones.
Your love had breath,
Turned to swan song.
A creeping image:
Of the April rain
Which fell when you
Shoved me away.
His last good bye,
Your epic’s cry:
“Not this, not this, not this!”
This love (though never ending)
Dies.
