Long ago, I built for myself a citadel.
A fortress of stone and shining marble,
deep within the confines of my heart's depths.
I retreated there in my darkest hours,
seeking solace in the vast halls
that swallowed the noise, the screaming and pain,
and left only my thoughts;
a true bastion of peace.
Then one day, not so long ago,
an angel walked into it,
strolled in and so seamlessly became my life.
Every moment stretched into hours of
ecstasy and elation,
four months of happiness became forever.
She filled this abode with splendor and light,
chased away its shadows and held me close.
Then something terrible befell me.
The passion, the spark in her, died;
her interest waned and I was abandoned.
She left with scarcely a word,
and yet it meant so much.
With this whisper, off-hand and mere courtesy,
she caved in these once-mighty walls,
tore my castle down.
Now I roam here, amid the scars and debris,
a ghost at play with the remnants of its past;
yet here I am haunted by ghosts of my own,
echoes of her strewn among the wreckage.
My worn and battered frame hangs
off my drooping shoulders as I stumble around,
staring at the surrounding devastation;
this castle of mine turned monument to my past.
I wonder at the cause,
at the reasons why,
and wail at a fate so swiftly undone;
I know not why I
was left so low and alone.
Tears stain the ravaged cobblestones as
I wander these tormented paths,
the broken stone mirroring the broken man.
I cannot escape her shadow,
regardless of inclination or distance;
I climb the heights of these sorrowful ruins,
the crumbling towers and wasted spires,
and the ghost of her follows me on.
I grow weary of the whispers of time gone by,
but cannot find the steps to leave;
my sanctuary become my prison.
Here, my grief.
Here, my grave.