Barlot ...

Lover, Departed

With eyes the color of adrenaline
And a scent like that of cinnamon
A gentleman of his nature was one I can’t forget
Simply regret…
Years of meaningless adoration
Salvation ending in tears…
I’m stationed in an old cabin facing everything He held near—
Like that book about the Granola James Bond
And my initials on the corkscrew.
If He only knew how much wine…
I’m fine, I’m fine
Keep in mind the difference of age
Five years apart is more than a stage of life:
Minimum wage and career
Lover and wife.
Ah well, sweet solitude
I’ve inked you past due
Though I thought you were through with me
Nothing to do with me
You managed to come through…
With flying hues of color
Another sign, says my mother, that I’m at loss of education.
A simple math equation and I’m through:
I minus you equals what I used to be
But to be what I was is old news
Much like the Republican Holy Crusades in Iraq
And once more we’re back—
To my left brain.
Bane of my intelligence
Marching with the regiment just to show I know the basics
Scissors, paper, sediment
Oh my goodness gracious!
What once was the rant of me losing my confidence
In the love of my adolescent years
Has turned to sheer, sheer panic
Frantic…
Beating to the drum in my ear
So finish it…here:
As obscene as you may take it
I wanted nothing more than to make it…
To the climax of my novel with you.

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Poem Edited: Saturday, April 2, 2011

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Edgar Allan Poe

Annabel Lee



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