Crying Over Spilled Women
His bleeding heart
Was flustered from that torn parchment
In their leeching chapter
Pushed aside
As if “friendship” was aggression’s bull
Running through crowded cemeteries
Under quartered, sapphire moon
He sipped pitied shots of century-old whiskey
With a dusty glass of pomegranate w(h)ine
“Why isn’t she coming back to me?”
“My heart will make empty declarations until her return!”
As he childishly latches onto recycled yesterdays
Praying for God to give him
White picket gate’s access code
Writing lavish, debt-ridden sonatas,
In whiplashed curiosity,
On why she chose to forget him
Unbeknownst to decrepit author
That he
Could simply
Return the favor
©Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Poet Tacito | Year Posted 2013
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