My bed, that house within a house,
Built of timber from your inner copse, now
Splinters in the dawn, and I must douse
The kisses destined for your brow,
Lest the dreamer destroy the dream
And repose fall from its narrow beam.

O, but how the poet longs
To mingle with your lips,
To plunge into the throngs
Of mysteries between your hips!
For neither sorrow nor deceit outweighs
The truth those mysteries convey!

Time, that marauding force,
Has yet to plunder my home,
Though history ran its course
And added to its mighty, darkened tome;
Alas, the caress of a promised groom
Soothes not the sorrow of today’s empty womb.

The edifice crumbles, but does not fall;
Empty space remains empty for you;
Together we sleep, curled into a ball
Of hope that bounces of out view.
Thus I ask: can I possible be sane
So long as you, the departed, still remain?