Your clothes
No longer hold your sent.
No gentle kisses
Can wake you now.
Empty slipper
With no feet to fill them.
The albatross
Tugs me down to drown
Into Tantalus pool.
Ambrosia turned to ashes
In the mouth,
No life outside the hermit’s villa
Only statues from medusas gauze.
Left with just my pale horse
To keep me company
Lost is your gentle touch
Across my brow.
Beyond view from Dante,
An inferno just my own.
Left with no melody,
Just the wind and rain
No fiddle to play it on.
The weekends deafening silence
Devoid of sweet suggestions,
The bitter reality
The only truth;
Each day’s march
Follows the next
Into the mouth of the sun,
Where melted wings
Burn
In the cold of the night,
Each breath is not your own.
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