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(FICTION, PLEASE.  It is easy for me to write in the first person, but nearly all my poems are fiction.  Please don't attribute this poem to me.  I loved my wife to distraction.  For ten years she was sick and I cared for her like a baby.  My only regret is that the ambulance which took her away would not allow me to be driven with her.  I knew she would die and she would have wanted me near her despite her dementia.  We were lovers.  I don't know where I got this old poem of mine, but it is still fiction.)

Shifting relentless time,
sand in hourglass trickles slowly
towards its final hour.
Pretending I care not,
I bask in the sun,
enjoy mellow breezes,
I wait; the end will come.
 
The sky is clear, my mind is not,
in truth I am distraught,
echoes of a distant past
ripple through my futile thoughts
reminding me of your last visit.
Now you stir in your desolate grave.
 
My listless life is at a crossroads.
I hover in a vicious vacuum,
remember all the senseless shame,
slide after seamy slide recalled,
all your wants and needs
which I demonically and cruelly denied
despite the reparable ways,
you made my fantasies would not come true.
 
Now it is too late.
Frustrations tear my sinful soul, 
I lie bound in a wicked web, 
I'll drink my teacup of remorse
tomorrow is another curious chance:
I pray for spiritual rebirth.

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