My love, you feel so very far away.
Only last night, I held you close to me;
So many things can change in just one day.
I long for you alone, for things to be
More simple.  I feel such confusion.
I do not wish to cause you any pain
That need not be.  I have no conclusion
Except that I need that closeness again.
You are so far from me.  Were you but near,
I'd speak these things in person.  I would try
To hold you close, and whisper in your ear.
For now, you're distant.  You need not reply
To this, or any other words I send.
I write this to feel, somehow, close to you.
Your struggles are too great to comprehend;
I'll not add to them.  But for just a few
I'd like to think of you, and write, and be
As close, as currently I can, to thee.

The line once drawn twixt growth and death
Has blurred, and melted into naught.
And now I feel, with every breath,
My heart melts with it.  I am caught
Within the strands my life has spun;
The seeds I planted with such joy
Have flowered, yet I fear that none
Will bear a fruit that won't destroy
The planting.  All is chaos, all
Is doubt.  Is it with joy or yet
With sorrow I await her call?
The future's gone, the past is set.
And though I fear to see the dawn,
The morning past has not yet gone.

My love, should it not hurt so much
Then love would be gone.  I can not
Bear to lose your light, eyes, smile, touch,
Tears, and yet they go.  Lost.  The thought
Burns within me, I turn to ash.
And thus it is, I know.  The pain
Is dear to me, is loved.  The crash
Within my heart, my soul, my brain
Is real, and comes from love.  Though I
So long to travel where we trod,
Those paths will not return.  I die
Each moment with you, each alone.
Death cannot heal where love is flown.

Oh Muse!  You who inspire me
To once more pick up pad and pen,
I beg you, Lady, set me free!
I cannot bear to write again.
For though your words are sweet, my dear,
This page is bone, this ink is blood,
And only pain is written here.
Although words rush from me in flood,
I do not like the things they say.
But still, your lash falls on my brain
And wounds me till I must obey.
I cannot bear to write.  Again,
I beg you, Muse, withhold your kiss.
No poetry could be worth this.