You, Poem by Jordan McLaren

You,

My verse has been robbed of you.
Tarnished now, torn down and
deposed, you have nothing to give the page.
At the eye of blinding lightning gales
and razor winds and acid rain
you stood. I whipped my soul all about you,
hurtled it around your lofty head in mad orbit,
numb with vertigo and awe.
You might have made for poetry, then,
when everything was you,
and nothing nonexistent but relent.
The squall has left the paper white,
unshredded, untorn, unscathed
by unruly teeth that shattered limbs and
set them ill in their restless healing; and
still I am numb: hands remain unburdened
by any heady, heavy ink.
The memory died in the wind.