Upon a vine
Garroted are the fruits of my love for you – dying,
decomposing as it perilously hangs from threads of –
projection, perception, rejection, prejudice, indifference.
Lack of respect, strangling - life’s force, decaying,
becoming butterfly dust upon the wings of Memory.
Memories of, thoughts of all that was good,
all that could have given birth to something great !,
adventures to come, experiences to be shared – cherished.
Cherished, now only refracted upon flecks of – dust –
memories of wonderful experiences, turning to rust
as time - and you – separate, distance what was,
( for me, in my illusions, in my deluding )
a reality that never was – what little existed for you and I.
I have shed many a tear – ache – and my heart will cry,
realizing - upon a vine, my love for you has to die –
a little each day, until you no longer catch my eye,
and the pain subsides, enough, that in relief I can sigh.
B. J. “A” 2
February 11th 2008