A Widow's Requiem

I never wish to write with a heavy heart...

But tonight, I will be the widow
of a living man, in whose presence,
I am but a marionette, a harlequined muse
with lips still half-parted, bitten red.

I will mourn for the mornings
spent by the walkways and dining patios
where each and every fragmented word--
skillfully woven, was like a brewed drink,
much to my surprise, like a concoction
of my tears, though, tasted only much,
much more bitter.

I will lament for the afternoons
and coffee spoons, haggardly
drowned in big pools of darkness,
staring back at me
like a substitute, I was, for sugar
to chase its bitterness away.

I will weep for the nights
that this city seemed to glimmer
like diamonds, or like an arcade of fire,
while a handful of kids and adults
danced the night away to Latin percussions
and Flamenco guitars, or when past lovers
could remain friends.

But tonight, as the wind swells up high in rage,
then I, too, shall reign, like sweet perfume, and rise
to render the unpalatable stench of your death
and defeat.

Copyright (C) 2012 by EvanescentMoon.