posthumous

there are those who never live to see
their brush with immortality
who sadly pass into the night
not having whet an appetite

when what they felt and what they thought
was just as grand and twice as wrought
as anything i ever said
(oh–how much more stay in my head!)

but that is just a poor excuse
from one who tampered with the muse
who living yet will rue the day
she scares another muse away

though they will gather once again
(and g~d alone knows how or when)
at last to lay my soul to rest
no longer by the lord possessed

considering themselves as scorned
as if they weren’t duly warned
as if the fickleness of fate
a habit she acquired late

and they will rage and they will keen
rememb’ring how they’d been so mean
surrounded now by what they lack
the memories that won’t come back

of quiet winter afternoons
and showing her the brightest moons
assuring her that none but i
would ever be her butterfly

of naughty spring~tide sabbath naps
her stupid weather~channel cap
the hair that she refused to grow
excepting in her down~below

it felt so easy to betray
we justified our reasons
sometimes love works out that way
in cycles like the seasons

it felt so good to let her go
such a heavy burden!
sometimes love’s a rodeo
sometimes you bring the herd in

then suddenly they will recall
occasions of the hero’s fall
and cease forevermore to pine
for what was dark and labyrinthine

a madness lurking in her mind
the crazy mixing with the kind
a tendency for dropping by
bear~ing fresh~baked apple pie

the nagging duties of a friend
whose obligations never end
to one who seems a little stranger
spewing mis~directed anger

a passion frivolously spent
by one who cannot pay the rent
so easier to rationalise
a pair of lusty, wand’ring eyes

it felt so easy to pretend
we never knew what hit us
sometimes love comes to an end
and sometimes it’s posthumous

it felt so good to finally see
we shouted from the rafters
“despite the heart’s mortality–¨
her love is ever~after!”

so, happy thoughts at last prevail
such as when i began this tale
and they to other lives have gone
while i have learned to live alone

for i have had occasion too
to rise above the love of you
the forces i can’t understand
that gently take me by the hand

a dance for two, a private floor
an innocence i knew before
of never guessing she’d deny
i’d ever been her butterfly

a funny mask, a phony name
the turning back upon her shame
the lying bitch, the selfish cunt
the hunted cheering on the hunt

it felt so easy to concede
(i find it most dis~tressing)
sometimes love can make you bleed
and sometimes it’s a blessing

it felt so good to realise
(i can’t believe it took so long)
sometimes love burns out and dies
and sometimes it lives on

* (inspired by the life and work of george gordon, lord byron)