There is weight, under my legs,
Breath that drains, from my lips,
And the whisper, to which, I utter, the solemn note,
Has the message of breath, between the eyes.
I find no mercy, coming from your words,
You speak of discontent, and demise,
And there’s no comfort, for us.
You say you cry to sleep, each night!
Why has God, promised this?
A marriage born, in a somber realm,
I am at fault, for each thing,
My undoing, to my command.
I have lost the touch, with a living thing,
I once raised thee, to see the earth’s end,
And now the fall, has come upon thee,
So that you have died, beneath my feet.
In death, you tell me, it’s complete,
Our love, is faltering,
In dismay, we feel tragedy.
In love, we feel disorder.
Sympathy, is a tragic story.
Pity, is even less merciful.
I think of the blade, upon my wrists,
And the blood, against my eyes.
I am at fault,
Because, I could not save love,
From its inevitable end,
What am I, but an unkind fool?