?

If stringing words is to no avail
then why do I pick mind's oysters bare
to fail?
For, in truth, you make up little time
spent by the bankers
of my mind.
I think not of you when breaking fast
though wood and stone weigh
on my wrist.
Nor think of you when passing flowers by
whose kind, for you, once lived
and died.
And truly, oft it slips my mind
that these darkdrab halls you once
lit sublime.
Even when I drift to sleep
you're not by my keen mind's eye
seen.
I know not why I yet choose
to hope to write and
write to lose.


Old sentiments, newly posted.