Wednesday, September 28, 2011


My heart is worn
with love's flow.
Here it was,
there it goes.

To feel eros in error is worse than dumb silence or numb blankness.
We toil and leisure in gloom when the clouds hang thick and no pinprick
of that celestial giant can be seen.
Were the cost to keep her eternal winter,
nocturne never quite turning to day,
I would walk that way with a smile.

To learn the belief -mutual adoration- on which your joy was built,
was false, by the discovery of a dagger's chill hilt, and know:
long ago she chose another (if ever she selected ye) so the pleasure
you felt was a phantom, a false reality's illusion,
is to find each glimmer of joy thereafter suspect.

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