You died at 22; left me alive
At 25 to write this sonnet tomb;
Block letters hewn, with fumbling hands I drive
This pen in metered clangs around your room.
In desperate pause, I step away to see
The ugly product of my trembling hands.
What is the use? These sculpted memories be
But dross unfit for what your name demands.
Oblivion. The void awaiting those
Who died before their fame could last.
I had no doubts; The noble path you chose
Was working, but the sickness worked too fast.
I look upon this tomb, its failed role;
And for your sake, elect to sell my soul.
How many wives of Donne, their throats to slit,
Must I enlist? The author forced to watch.
“A thousand Holy Sonnets you shall writ!
Or else this woman too! I’ll butcher! Botch!”
A Monster I’ve become, demanding text,
Out from this poet’s brain like industry;
Extruding beauty, meter, rhythm, “Next!"
"You’ll write for Mine! My Love! In chains you’ll be!”
Until my thirst for blood be satisfied,
But blood so written out in papered rhyme,
Enough to fill soft veins of her's who died;
"Mikaela! Write it Man! Inspired this time!"
I can't release the weeping poet Donne,
Until immortal fame this woman's won.
"Put down the pen!" I hear my lips exclaim;
And with a shudder 'waken in disgust --
Hungover mind arrested from the game
Of making all things right with blood and lust.
The Fates, God! took you cruelly from this place,
You lying there, in gurney, bridging realms.
We prayed around your body holding space,
Your plastic altar donning wired helms.
But now in Spirit, the Body finished,
I dream you're still alive atop a tree;
In that Garden, Eden, undiminished,
See "New Jerusalem" at peace; you're free.
You wrote your life: impassioned, selfless ink;
I pray you've found Utopia, I think.
Copyright © Robert Allen | Year Posted 2019