2009

they found your bones
on a temple of rusty daggers
and ruled out murder and suicide.
there were no candles, no blood,
no cuts to complete the ritual,
only traces of poison,
slight, run out.

the TV flickered on
to outlive the legend;
the key was swallowed
to escape detection.
and through the door,
they charged, discovered,
the indistinct face
of the fallen god.


you sang of solitude,
you shunned what you owned,
instead resorting to the vines,
a recluse in the dark,
reduced, unattended.


you recall being maimed
and forget being loved.
fourteen days un-suffered,
seven years sundered,
and all those blank spaces
in my collection
still await your surrender.