08 February 2010


It’s been a year, a mood that
never leaves is hid between
the moments when I think of
you with clarity and those
where fear abrades a faultless
view of purity august

Did you ever dare adjust a
measure of this malady? No peace
in conscience known has dwelt
with such a trenchant loneliness;
I’d vet an answer candidly if
you despaired the same as me

I live alone in emptiness and
fear it for my sanity – I hear
your voice deceiving what I know
is not, admitting to an anxious
need too deep entrenched to quell,
a heritage of Hell replete

There is no joy in silent trees even
though they gainfully appease
my angst in noble quietude; it is
the wash beyond benign serenity
I need, the memories that bathe
in want of you prolonged
© 23 January 2010, I. D. Carswell