The Poet

She met me with the splendor of the day;
Yet I blind squalored in death chill night.
She offered me joy in her jubilant way;
Yet I spurned her spirit for hell’s dim blight.

As time ebbed on, we glimpsed of her shadow
Casting a spray of hope upon our door,
Flowing across the night ever so slow,
Twirling and twisting outward as to soar.

As if cruel fate envied my timely thought
To untimely rip your promise from me,
Damming me into such a shallow drought,
To thirst for water, though drowned in the sea.

For the love of my life, my dying womb,
Lay shriveled and gnarled within a tomb.