The Octave Of My Error Poem by Patti Masterman

Parched gates guard the entrance to your being,
And like a leper, I've been cast aside;
Shuttered windows, all that I can see now,
While in the gulch, I'm rumored to reside.

I'm supposed to die or leave here most quietly;
Never to disturb, the angels of the house;
You treat friendship so unseemly and unsightly,
My state's reduced, to lower than a mouse.

I wish I knew the octave of my error;
That note of wrong, that’s burnt into the wood:
I'd polish with oils, and try to make it fairer;
Anything to fix it, if only I still could.