And why? asks the lady. I have no reply...
My self-centered worship of self would defy
The logic of Einstein, or Hawking's keen sight,
Encloaking me, bleached, in a mocking delight
That thrills down my nerves and uncurls off my tongue
As scornful refrains of a song best unsung.
But why? asks the lady. Her eyes yet are dry;
But her pain's like a torrent between her and I,
Assaulting the stone of my fortress of white,
Now wearing me down with her broken heart's bite --
She pierces me through with remorse, with me hung
On hooks of regret catching throat, chest and lung.
Oh why? asks the lady, and still no reply,
I've given up asking myself yet the why,
Why I should have ventured away from her light,
A misguided moth full of hunger, and fright,
Whose selfish desires have just throttled and flung
Our love down amid all the squalor, and dung.
Love, why? asks the lady, Oh, please tell me why?
I tremble here watching a fragile thing die,
And wonder why I thought that I had the right
To wander away and draw my neglect tight,
In ways that would backlash, with vigor that stung
This gentle young girl who is not now so young.
The dynamite crumps, and the thunder rolls on.
My dreams rush away with a cry like the damned.
Those bright things in life that I loved now are gone,
Destroyed by the hex of one carnal demand.
© 1997 Floyd Largent. All rights reserved. This work or portions
thereof may not be reproduced without express written consent of the author.
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This page created and maintained by Floyd B.
Largent, Jr. (Landfaller). Last updated 25 Fenruary 2001.