You took the road
A million others have taken
But you took it alone
A troubadour
The watery strain
Of your Orphean ballads
Too much for
The other myrmidons
So they left you
To wilt the willows
Alone.

Acetone will not unhinge
An epoxy this old.
You’re stuck
In another place
Another time
And though the man
Who put you there
Is no more.
You’re still quaking
In the aftermath
Of his seismic waves.

And others
Though once ensorcelled
By the sight
Of beauty in pain
Are now repulsed
By your entrenchment
In its vines.