Lost in a world of the author's making,
Coffee and tea
Are the good company since twenty

Laying on the rotten floorboards
With fictions clutched to chest
Teary eyes,
Sober lips,
Storms and rainy night are singing

Past 12,
And you realized,
The sound of the piano ;
The pauses between the notes
That's where your heart resides.

Take from me this fragile cup,
and then for me, please smash it up.
And
take from me these shattered dreams,
because the night's not what it seems.
And
while you're crying, in the hall,
I'll take hammers to these walls.
And
while you're treading through the glass,
I'll remember time gone past.
And
find for me a coat and tie.
I'll sing for you a lullaby.
And
I will sing you off to sleep,
then I'll go swimming in the deep.
And
try for me, to just forget
the first time that we ever met.
For
now I'm gone, I won't back,
and now for me you'll dress in black.

Does it matter?-losing your legs?
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.
Does it matter?-losing you sight?
There’s such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.
Do they matter-those dreams in the pit?
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you’re mad;
For they know that you've fought for your country,
And no one will worry a bit.

Some mornings come with a side of regret,
The product of long dark hours,
Long dark dreams, infinite thoughts,
That cannot be cast aside with such pale light.
Its roots taste of truth, but bitter.

You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.

You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.

**** you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.

And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.

it seemed fitting.
it was what you wanted to hear.
I wanted it to be true.

You lied first.

it bought some time.
it just seemed right.
I couldn't admit . . .

You cut deep.

it saved face.
it was easier.
I hoped it would change.

You deserved it.

It mattered.  But
it doesn't anymore.