I can't help writing this.
I'm sorry. Forgive me.
Did you strangle all delicacy
In a single careless moment?
Did you chase her away with music
You gave her to sit down and listen to
Which alas contained a secret song?
Was your every night a fretful one
When you slept like the grateful dead
Did you punch and kick your legs
As if beauty was still your enemy?
Now of course all demons rest −−
Freedom from her was hard-won.
Though the scratching you begin to hear
Is like a heavy gate upon the skin.
Did you think you could get away with it?
I’m sorry. Forgive me.
I can’t help writing this.
©ROB SCHACKNE (2010)