On Encouraging A Woman To Write A Dying Old Flame Poem by Cheryl L. DaytecYañgot

(for N.D.C.)

I am the messenger; how I hate the parcel
I dropped; it weighs down your bruised heart, I see it swell
Your head lamely drops as if your life met defeat
With an everyday news- someone’s imminent death
I listen to the words you would not say to me
You narrow your lachrymose eyes as if to see
A picture beyond the present’s range of vision
Remembered rupture and pain, hardly illusion

Moments pass. You speak of youth walking in the rain
Raking dropped autumn leaves, gobbling lunch on the plain
Dreams of forever shared under the setting sun
Lingering incubus after his abrupt run
The dreams became a thorn, perforated your heart
Fate gave a naked life, shivering without art
Betrayal froze your hopes, derailed all time and tide
You buried love; but I doubt if it really died.

Tears cascade your face; how forlorn every dropp is
From yonder days they come, without a touch of bliss
Now you reach for paper and pen and start to write
Release the pain and anguish that made cold the nights
I sense a fierce battle between your heart and mind
The courage to pierce stretched silence is hard to find
Your letter is undone, but then it must be done
For one chance ignored is a precious chance let gone

Haste won’t make waste; the punctual sun will soon be down
Late is better than ne’er; a smile outdoes a frown
His time is almost up; he still waits for your dove
Even anger and pain, they too can come from love
After years of loving, forgiveness comes with ease
Such one gift will make your beloved rest in peace
Open your mouth; sing loud your bitter-sweet refrain
Tomorrow you’ll look back with joy, without the pain.