The cadence fell in a din of histrionics,
for all was not so carefully prepared;
what’s left is a dreary maze of shifting tonics –
the “I” to whom my lonesome self has since repaired.
Like gardens sequestered beneath soft rains,
prettily inscribed in Spring’s unchallenged grammar,
the new year was a display of drafted quatrains,
extracted from an earlier chapter.
Ah, the days when once I tailored my sated heart
to suit the chaste hands which she offered readily.
The bones of an ill-favored matriarch
interred at the solstice’s wastelands, dead is she
who tended the wilting husk of this dour soul
(for Narcissus, too, is a flower) – so
I close my eyes and invoke the immortal bard.
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