Lost

poem

At fifteen, your sepulcher was nearly

complete, dear lover, slabs of immutable

granite set in place with your premonition,

with the diligence of your lovely hands, then

christened with your blood disease.

 

At thirty, you brought out the worst in me,

living, then dying, dear lover, in the place you’d

grown to despise, your stiletto heels set aside

while tiptoeing away on shifting shale--pretty

pretty in fine silk stockings.

 

The years have passed, dear lover. Your letters

have yellowed with antiquity, yet still, I wait

at your Orphean gate, pondering our jeweled

romance and the bludgeoned rats in our

cellars.

Reviews

[Arundass TP]

Beautiful poem. Enjoyed reading 🙂

[Mike]

Thank you for reading and for your kind comment, Arundass.