Teacher, you are right - it is just like me,
in wrath, I know only to curse the sea,

for all that is looking but never found,
for all the persons I shall never be.

So I turn back to my foolhardy pen
in the hope that I should breathe once again

the air we had shared in memories drowned,
now left to spoil amongst capricious men.

Our budding memoir is wrought in white gold,
yet at your ghost’s feet, I buckle and fold.

It is within these sheets that I am bound,
Oh, How it severs hearts to be so bold!

I shall live as a fragment of a hive,
lost autonomy; no longer alive.

But one day I’ll mine the old lion’s mound,
upon the tremor of my childhood’s sound,
I’ll yell from the cornfields; wait to be found,
‘neath the canopies where the leaves have browned.

And teacher, you’re right - it is just like me,
to dismiss my blessings, I’m blind, you see,
to all that’s thawed in this frozen beauty
and the way that we kiss so absently.