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the Poem

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I wrote you a Poem that Saturday,

            the day you walked away

I sensed the change when I saw your eyes

            but ignored it anyway;


Your reaction to the gift I gave

            was not what I thought it would be,

another piece of my worthless heart

            given in vain to thee;


I even tasted it in your kiss,

            though my heart didn't want to believe;

I heard in your voice on the phone

            when I called but could not conceive,


That formulating in your mind

            was the plan to sever heart's strings,

Yet in cutting yours, you coldly cut mine

            another victim of yours, it seems;


So as I walked around that lake

            what a fool I must have appeared,

pen and paper in my hand

            even children looked at me weird;


But I was in the Poet's grip

            enveloped in the Muse' melody,

walking around with blinders on

            though my eyes could perfectly see;


I wish you would have shared your thoughts

            so that I could partake, too

in the things that deeply troubled your heart

            but as usual, it was Silence renewed;


Your not as good at sharing as you've

            often claimed to be,

when things get even a little hard

            your tongue is the first to flee;


No, I wish instead you'd have told me

            to step into your car

and took a deep breath and then simply said

            the things that were on your heart;


I know as you laid in my arms

            early in the morning,

you'd not yet divorced me in your inner soul

            no, that came later, without warning;


For if you did, your own confession

            you'd likely have never made

So I take great comfort in knowing that

            - for a moment -  in your heart I still laid;


Yes, it must have been those hours

            between the time I had to go

and the time I called you, giddy

            off the vapors of love we'd known;


If only you would have shared with me

            and told me, too, your fears

And not run off under the guise

            of being too tired, it appears;


It's not the fact you reject me, I've been

            left hanging a time or two

it's more in the way you do it, though;

            sometimes I don't understand you,


For you've once made the comment

            that I am poor at communicating,

yet I've bared enough for both of us

            what more to the table can I bring?


I've said it all, I'll say no more,

            at least, about these things;

I've poured myself out, there's nothing left,

            no Fairy Tale endings...


...and what was that Poem? I'm not sure, but somehow

            twas the best I have ever written,

Enraptured in the Muse and the Poet, too,

            t'would have earned the respect of Milton;


For the ink it flowed and the pen it rolled

            'cross the canvas of this artist's soul,

even Shakespeare and Yates would not debate,

            maybe the finest the World will ever know...


...and where is that Poem?  I think you already know,

            I returned it from whence it was born;

it lies somewhere, now, in prairie grasses unplowed

            along Zorinsky's lake shore;


Oh deep was the struggle that warred in my mind:

            should I place it with it's brethren on my site?

Though not my First Born, it was forsaken, forlorn,

            and the World deserved not it's sight;


So now that Poem rests with the worms in tall grass -

            they'll appreciate it more than you;

It's sad when one knows that the words that once flowed

            dried like the morning dew.

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