The Other Poem by ... ...

I cannot write.
The star is dead.
The poet in me returns to slumber.
So fleeting the instant, so silent the time,
Already Fall slips into December.
The twilight has come.
The end is near.
The final sigh of Winter.
Nature heaves, my heart dies.
Life poised on a balanced whisper.
That cannot fly, is already gone,
Far away, twisted by a convulsive mutter.
I am lost, I am dread,
The illusion so faint, so sweet.
It was said, I once said.
You are mine, I am yours,
In you fulfilled, I drink and meet.
Lost, oh lost, hopelessly lost forever.
Escape, escape, I fly, I run, I go.
On the precipice of dreams, I roam.
Roam in search of another.
But I am, no more, I know,
No more will Beauty shine.
For what is right, what was mine
Has left, has left me for no other.
I cannot write.
The star is dead.
The poet in me has fallen.
Fallen asleep, away from me,
Fallen in the hands of another.
It was said, I once said.
That love lasted forever.
The brilliant bushel of light
I surmise
Has fallen to the shadows of Winter.
So have you betrayed me,
With lies,
In lies, you lied with another.
So fall I have, in Fall I shook,
In Fall I met with a stranger.
Not of peace, not of hope.
The sightless eyes of restless demise,
These eyes of sorrow did whisper.
Of the deed you did, of the cries of joy,
The cries you never would utter.
For me, for me, for me,
For me you ever did slumber.
But for him, this man,
The alien, the fool,
You did turn yourself traitor,
You gave yourself, so entirely,
So entirely to another.
I cannot write.
The poet is dead.
I finally put an end to the torture.
It was a beautiful night,
Not a breeze crossed my sight,
On this longest twilight of December.
I slew the poet,
I slaughtered the stranger,
I murdered the man, this Other.
But in shame, in shame,
In misery, I did exclaim,
In shock I beheld another.
Not a stranger, no other man,
Truly
None other, none other was the stranger.
One and the same,
Yes, one and the same,
I had been deceived forever.
This curse, this doom,
This misery, this gloom,
Must look no further for its maker.
The artist of design,
The creator of the Line,
The one and only Stranger.
I cannot write,
This poem is dead.
I am now trapped in eternal slumber.
The poet was right.
It was said, I once said.
Beware the longest night of Winter.
The Beautiful night, the absence of light,
Will bring you, truly,
Will bring you naught but dread.
And so it was, the poet was dead.
The deed was done,
I ended the stranger, the impostor,
The traitor.
But in death, in death,
Even with his final words he said:
My brother, my brother,
What have you done my brother.
There is no Other.
Rest peacefully brother.
For together, in each Other.
I am dead.