Ashen Pages

I’ve been sitting with hands in my lap

The air is trapped inside the tinted windows

Scenery of blankness and smoke, a lined eye

To think I’d almost died

In your arms it cannot be; your pain is torturous,

Gluttonous and grim.

I’ve been sitting now, patiently

Can you speak of truth?

A faulted step, a trusted steed, some angered

Episode of homicidal rage.

Your rouge filled cheeks are charred and full

The tears of a maiden with no real home.

In your mind, it cannot be

You strike and wince: A malice heart

Filled with grandiose travails.

The words that flail across your lips,

I could not remind myself to stay.

I’ve much desired less, the hand that breaks

through softened glass, I’ve become steel.

Your blows are wretched ones,

I thought I’d never see the wrong, the ill

The blend of a wilted couch

Your hands charred and mangled, as if

The bloodied boat sank by Scylla

I cannot be here to sew up the seams

Again, again, again.

Your eyes are sunken of moistened woes

And a swollen, warm cheek.

My sweet, loving toppled by the contrast

of your tragic life,

I must remember this is by your design

That I may only greet demise.