He reclines in his brittle chair carved from his own grief,
Not very regal, but heavily resigned to the aches.
The weight of silence cleanly cuts through the air.
His hands, now mapless, no longer seek.
Memories he left behind in clouds, were few and brief.

Books cradle their breath upon the shelf.
Never once a glance as he knows their unchanging tone.
The windows screech with tempered light
As regret drips down the pale pane of ivory bones.
His posture reflects the weight of years notched in his belt.
The leather groans, stretched too thin like his sense of self.

The hour never bows a whim to beg his name.
Dust circles, never sure as to where to fall.
His suit of choice is a reliquary of loss.
Each button, a distant memory hard pressed in shame.
The air is stained
The room too small.
A silent gasp
The last breath falls.

Nothing is constant;
Neither my sense of satisfaction --
or loathing?

Does that bring comfort?
A yearning? Distraction;
from and liberation!

If Shakespeare were here now, what would be his wisdom
In the times of 'Trending' like fashion;
Would 'star-crossed lovers' be a clickbait sensation?

Once, I loved with abandon,
like a river flowing wild and free,
with no walls,
no doubts,
no questions,
just with pure possibility.

Now love stalks like a savage beast,
and I am weary of it's teeth.
Trust bleeds through
my painful raw wounds
where hope and fear
fester beneath.

Each time I dare to offer
my beaten and weathered heart,
the past denies,
leaving me empty,
and I often wonder
if I will be enough.

Was the river never wanted
by those searching for mere rain?
My heart,
once soft,
now toughened,
guarding carefully against such pain.

©️Lizzie Bevis