The poet closes his eyes.
Yesterday's ache is today's rage.
For what?
There's nothing to ache for.
Nothing to rage at.
Just meaningless fiction.
Aching for emptiness.
Raging at absence.
Tomorrow he will burn the books,
in ritualistic fashion,
to stop the voices
alternately screaming
then weeping poetry
on to his page.
He pleads for the pen
to be cut from his hand.
"Let the reign of silence be met
with cheers of joy by all
who have suffered
the dark days,
tormented nights,
and pointless longings of my work."
With one fading final
whimpered declaration of love
the poet resigns.
One last lie
to complete her collection.
But he wonders
which is the lie?
That he lived?
Or that he can say goodbye.
The poet closes his eyes.
Yesterday's ache is today's rage.
For what?
There's nothing to ache for.
Nothing to rage at.
Just meaningless fiction.
Aching for emptiness.
Raging at absence.
Tomorrow he will burn the books,
in ritualistic fashion,
to stop the voices
alternately screaming
then weeping poetry
on to his page.
He pleads for the pen
to be cut from his hand.
"Let the reign of silence be met
with cheers of joy by all
who have suffered
the dark days,
tormented nights,
and pointless longings of my work."
With one fading final
whimpered declaration of love
the poet resigns.
One last lie
to complete her collection.
But he wonders
which is the lie?
That he lived?
Or that he can say goodbye.
(post is archived)