My soul no longer fits within my verse,
but tied to one another, I am bound
to write my tangled poetry, rehearse
how often I am lost, how seldom found.
The words no longer fit within my soul,
without the pain of knotted, twisted cords
which loosen with the loss of self-control
called passion, with its Gordian rewards.
Perhaps you only wanted pretty rhyme;
perhaps I truly couldn’t give a fuck.
In either case it seems a waste of time
to ponder such entanglements.  I’m stuck
with what I’ve chosen.  Words will never end,
just like the pain of losing you, my friend.

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