The Agony of Parted Lovers

On this pulped plant, via mind,
Through blue ink I will let explode
All my dampening suppressions,
The desperations, that distractions cannot veil
Of lovers locked away by livelihood worry,
Of passion parted by duty.

At my desk my brain I train
To poise in concentration and vacate avocations.
Since four years with melancholic eyes
Through a glass window
Resting on their strangling shelfs
They have watched me work; with hopes in their pages,
Esperance in their plots, constancy in their themes
To be read again by me,
Their Prince Charming, long anticipated;
Watching the argil on the wheel
Struck by the hard hands of drudgery.

The unformed urn, cracks at points
But ceases not to spin
The phantasied rendezvous,
Spans later, then wearing a qualified coat,
The gates of the cupboard open....
The mouth-watering scent of old parchment-
The patience of those held back days.

The cupboard's harassing keys
Lie in front of me,
Yet, to open it, my hands are tied
By deathless devious devoir.

Someday, surely, will rise
The horse of an awaiting white sun
Upon which I will ride
And rescue my sweethearts,
Those daughters of champion wordsmiths.