written by: Maria Chalastani
Vague memories of us on sun-washed rocks
-you’ve never failed me, it seems,
at life’s fairest-
but, then, you never promised
you’d be there
to ride my storms or tame away my tempests.
In which rare legend, saga or epic verse
would you play that heroic part
I have long saved?
You will forever be escaping from a gateway;
You’d rather be the ‘villain’
than the ‘brave’.
You drifted far on a dim, winter night star
leaving me with no hopes
on which to stammer;
how many paper scars will I be marking still?
How long before I stop
calling you “summer”?
In death’s own dark den you would sooner
hum your songs
than have your minor chords tangled into my major;
aspects unseen and sentiments ungrave
as if some lunar descent claims
your human nature.
Two or three shredded pictures come to life
have shed some light
on your flickering figure.
Would you have ever told me of your love
had your lips not been sealed
by death so bitter?
A union on hold; I’ve come to terms.
Until the sun itself
is once exiled
the Poet will be mourning his Annabel Lee
and I, the love
you have so painfully denied.