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Poem

“Guilty, Sir, if you insist that I am--
Yes, ‘twas I who cut her with a knife and
Took her heart out, so very gently while
It was beating--still beating in my palms.
From the cavity where her heart had lain
I placed it in an ornate box with care,
A vessel lined with the finest satin,
Encrusted around with glittering gems    
That shone and sparkled like her living eyes,
Which had enthralled me when she was alive. 

“What? Remorse, Sir? No, absolutely not!
With what I did, I am most satisfied.
Know, Sir, that she had promised me her heart
When we were young and very much in love--
This love we nurtured, as seasons went by
And yearly sealed in sincere assurance,
Till she slowly became cold and distant,
Not speaking a word, till through circumstance,
She confessed that someone else had her heart, 
So I--I took what was pledged to be mine.

“Where, Sir? It’s in a space under my bed,
Where nightly I take it out of its place
And lay it on my pillow near my head
That I may caress it and dream of days
When lovers stood fast on what they had pledged.
Please, Sir, if you’d retrieve the box for me,
This dank dark cell would be a paradise,
For her heart would bear me such company
That even the loss of freedom would suffice 
To make me feel I am a man most free.”

April 2, 2023

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