Love Sick in December

These were the Decembers

That could never save us

The preludes we could not transmit

                      

Hopes left unloved, unfulfilled

In our bosom where light stopped

And candles did not fill the

 

Darkened room, no rub of conversation slips

Only silence, and a life composed

Of odds and ends, so blind and numb

 

These were the Decembers

Of the rest of our lives, after Love

The friendship we could not find

 

Which meant so much, these monuments

We tried to erect, cracked corners

Of poems left on napkins on tables

 

Where we were left, the stalks of remorse

Slowly twisting down our smiling at situations

Immeasurably in discomfort, tea for agonies

 

Where I remain disposed like a street piano

Out of tune, frequently late, to perform

To the unsuspecting audience of passer byes.

Reviews

[Phonetics]

Why does this make me feel so sad. Imageries of a lonesome person illuminated by the dying light of the candle and then by the solitary shard of a moon’s blue light.

[Emily B]

i went back to your beginning, and was a little dismayed that words like these lingered here alone

but no more, i'll light a candle and keep vigil if i have to

[Prolific In Verse]

What do you mean? When words are all you own, how could they not rest alone.

I'll accept any light. But right now my social energy is dim.

[Emily B]

these are words that every poet should read, they shouldn't be left too long alone

[Emily B]

no obligations, i've been too used to darkness myself; we've not been formally introduced but my name is Emily and I sometimes have foolish ways