Eleven

o'clock

Got used to your flesh, my arms grieve for the loss

          as I trace the sheets where your body used to be.

Heart's agony surmounting the pain of the cross;

          my eyes search vainly for the figure I should see.

 

 

Nights promised with joy, now a nightmarish inevitable,

          as seconds walk past in a funeral parade.

Your absence shatters dreams of my love-struck soul,

          oblivious of hours and wishes as they fade.

 

 

Clock strikes eleven, cursed hour of the night,

          another dead promise, fourth failure to keep.

Fate denied your face to comfort my sight;

          I bury my hopes and force myself to sleep.

Author's Note

I like to be a bit vague in this one.

Reviews

[Inda]

Vagueness and all it is a beauty! Such a tragical and relateble story told here, love it!

[Blue]

Thank you so much, Inda.

[MAC]

Vague works very well and in this piece it works perfectly.

[Blue]

Thank you so much, Mark.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

tough to force ourselves to sleep when promises aren't kept.

[Blue]

Chuckling here. ;) Thanks, Jacb. I'm afraid you are right.

[KAin]

There's a shout hidden beneath the silence of this one. Beneath the overt sense of loss, there seems to be a question. Will the reader ask the right one, though?
A sorrowful, well-written piece. Keep it up...

[Blue]

Thank you, Landred.

[Eddie Davis]

Interesting, I think I figured this one out from the clues in your verses. Perhaps some rather popular Gnostic traditions influenced this work?

[Blue]

I had to check the dictionary for the meaning of 'gnostic'. Haha. That's an interesting idea, Eddie, though the meaning that I intended is different.