I play my bowed lyre,
my mind not quite clear,
albeit I did not imbibe.

Chagrin is strummed
as I tell myself the tales
of my trysts.

Now I sit near the hearth
watching the log lessen in size,
turning to ash.

I cannot elude this aberration,
I feel the forlorn tug of my heartstrings;
my meretricious panoply of remorse shall stay within me
until my heart has become turgid with sorrow,  
until I cease to roam this world.