To hours and evenings that I once
loved so dearly with my pure soul
to them now I curse, in poetry
and interrogate as on why they turned
against their own existence.
To the month, to the season
I probe for milky truths
no ‘their side of story’,
can satisfy my quivering contemplation.
They do not speak, nor listen
to my miserable broodings
They have sold their core
to the ornery of dumb wit.
Their is no bitter truth
than the past,
the regrets that are borne out of
subconscious, memory, acceptance.
I must interrogate for one and the last time
of how the wind turned its slant
and how the stream froze
and melted towards the dawn.
I shall wrap September
in a shroud of disdain
and perform rituals one does
when a muse dies.
And burn poetry, in fire
the fire that burns the insides
when a darling dream is tore apart