As I Squander

told, I’m … purveyor of a pen drowning in the anguish of the heart … bulletin: love - not always love love - always pain always - all ways … wherever, whatever, WHOever the soul divides for, consumed, one day … lost to time’s bitter casualty - forever’s coda, postscript of existentialist id … not an iota escapes the darkest of fates ALL is impermanent and sorrow, the outcome … in contention, then - pray, how moans the sea if not broken on a reef? how chants a catbird if not mourning for its mate? how drinks the earth without heaven’s weep? and how bright a sun, if not immersed in the bitter, unforgiving black of space? please fear not, that ache - those throes of casualty are but the ripples of passing on love’s expanse - those prayerful pangs, the precious payment for life’s dearest … so, if that blessed abyss be the stead of my demise, embrace it, I shall … and if those briny beads of the eye are the only coursing for my ink, so be it … there are far more poisonous potions to waste words … upon.