The cleft between us leaves all cold at heart
For no amount of will could bring me closer to seeing your rutilant face.
Only the rakish man with a moil-minded conscience should forget
Those eyes, those blue incitements of a soul hell-bent on a love so forlorn.
My chest is a cannon as I cry to the weeping angels,
“Spare me this tearing soul! Show me mercy! Undo this hasp and toss me asunder!”
But angels they are not, as their disgust turns to scorn.
Their libations are a selfish fanfaronade of farewells
Aimed at he who could not regret.
I call to her, “Let our tryst not be mournful, let us not acknowledge
The knell of that silent divide.”
Only her ears are the wind caressing the ilex,
Having no patience for a lovesick waif
Like myself.
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