I should have left it there;
- to carry on the rant for years
has meant the stable peace
we shared is bent beyond repair.
Or bent beyond redemption at
the very least, you’d think,
beyond the reach of clemency –
a link which wears the thinner
with its discontent. And there’s
the irony, it gathers strength.
It grows and glows a halo that
entwines our souls in winds of
silken thread – I am enmeshed
abed with thoughts of you I’d
rather shed, a slave of comfort
only you provide, a gladiator
left alive when all the others died:
their swords in hand they bled
a sticky death for vacant eyes that
scarcely noted their demise.
You took my head between your
hands and said that glory came
to nought for love, and love was
pain the brave alone endured.
© 9 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
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