Deserted

Drained of passion now for she, who willed herself
To cease to be (for me), I plod an achromatic plain
Which hasn't scent or sound. I sleep all right.
I do not dream, and I'm agreeable to those who
Seek to use me. Why complain? Her absence
Leaves me without uses of my own to give my
Life. I search each face I see go by to slake my
Thirst, to pour back passion into what's an
Empty shell, but, so far, none has tipped to me.
I plod the plain. I dread the light. I palm her
Name as if it was a stone I found. It's all I
Have, as she has ceased to be.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 18 times
Written on 2011-04-05 at 16:24

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