She became a poet to stalk me online.
That's what the mad do, they say.
She put in her verse what was erased in mine,
My "blind unkindnesses" and her gun firing lines
Before she falls to her divan to mourn the one
And true liar who tragically walked away
From his only shot at happiness ...
There'll be no self-reflection in this new game
Where disembodied phrases mean whatever pain
You choose in that woebegone moment to feel,
A voice from the bottom of a back nine well that says
"Save me" or "you're doomed" it's impossible to tell,
Like that song on that old record you always skipped before,
That makes the symphony around it sound meaningless now.
All the mistaken formulas for how to murder love;
Do you leave it to rot for the hounds? Stab a victory shot
In its weakest vein? Speak no ill of the living until they are safe
And buried? Or dress the would-be corpse again in the latest regalia?
The mystery roars on, as the bards with their pipes
Pontificate what might have been, under different conditions
Than the ones we're blessed or cursed to forget.
There are no words, there are no pictures
For the twisted postures of lovers trying to keep
The monster at bay and the compromised plans for the day,
There are only the words of the scorned —
Trying to explain to the court they're not wrong
When the only crime the jury wants deciphered
Is how the feeling of forever got away.
