I hath sent many a letter
and nary one hath been returned
truly i understand your reluctance
as we have been tempestuous at best
lovers with an intensity within the genesis
of moral corruption
yes indeed my love
sensitive souls are corruptable
for they yearn opportunity
and with chance comes the inevitable debate
which constricts ones mind
and forces love in its infancy to be stillborn
we hath never if ever truly belonged to us
the villiage being the siren call in the midst
of our passionate twilight
beseeching us and probing for answers to questions
they in their solitude are hesitant
to inquire
perhaps our shared desire was based
upon baseless predictions
given as we are to impromptu affirmations of love
yet what hath we done
did we survive the strom formed upon
the sea of tranquility or did we purposely
attempt to resume our communication
on the darkest side of the moon
where light of our loves bonfire cannot reflect
and only the void of space and planetary masses
too distant to reach reside
perhaps the incoming tides
washed away the imprint of our bodies
cojoined as one in passionate embrace
upon the sands of the beach
or maybe we are the products of petulance
I know not
as i sit and wonder why letters sent to your heart
hath never been returned
today I shall not churn inside
or spurn your grattitude for what we are
but I shall lament what we could have become
time is the final arbiter on all decisions
concerning matters of the heart
i know this based upon past pain
of being exiled from paradise and thrust
into the wilds of eros
many a men hath lost there way
in attempts to subsist on lustful yearnings
I
not by choice
but by the spirits decree cannot do so
for my blessings small as they may seem
to untrained eyes are dependent upon
my virtue
and my pride is no longer a price of admission
for those who question said virtue
for now as i contemplate letters sent not returned
I feel not a burning sense of curiosity
but rather a resigned debilitation
such is my skill at hiding pain the world
around us will only see the man
they have become accustomed to expect
yet at night
when all is still
and against my weakened will
I will contemplate the fate we hath be assigned
and the glorious fate we hath lost
and i will weigh the cost
of retaining my worth
yet losing a love beyond worth
to the worthlessness of assumption
letters doth not matter
for they are but sketches of silence
not meant to form a comprehensive thought
but rather highlight the apprehension
of hearts that once sought
solace within the promise of loves embrace
the taste of your favorite wine remains upon my lips
and even that will fade as the day marches towards
an absolute conclusion
but run I will not
from chance
from fate
from dreams
for as I pen this letter I realize our love
is all i have at this moment to warm
my bitter day in this our winter of discontent
yet I wonder as winter fades
and spring cascades over the hills
will during these warming trends
our love end
or did it indeed end when you hath received
letters from my heart and chose to ignore them
during your diatribe
I know not
I only know my love for you remains steadfast
a lasting tribute
to all you meant
the day I sat and wrote my first letter
to your heart
that letter I seem to recall was read and a reply
sent in haste
and now
I hath but the aftertaste of your favorite wine
upon my lips to remind me of you

All Poetry by D.Greaves/Darwin Greaves by D.Greaves-Darwin Greaves is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at dgreaves.posterous.com.
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