Shreds: “Me Lady”

Of all I leave unsaid, little remains
That hasn’t been voiced afore,
Perhaps through glances, in familiar strains,
Those I break, then, with a “nevermore.”

Of all you’ve uttered, much I withhold,
Unable to articulate, for what reason?
Maybe from boredom, jest, or laziness bold,
Or simply from youth’s season.

Of those who could have held my hand,
Few truly clasped fingers tight,
Be it out of pity, hate, or demand,
Or perhaps out of sheer folly’s flight.

A thousand words I already know,
You care naught for, that’s plain to see,
For poetry’s not bread, my dear, although,
I’m aware, jest as well as thee.

But I cannot be a jester, I find,
So paper remains, the night, a bed of toil,
Years of joys left behind,
Yet unseen, wrapped in turmoil.

I retain the strength to leap one more breath,
And count your steps in another hall,
Dream of your eyes, now on another’s path,
I’ve laid down the arms you wished to see me enthrall.

For there are wars, me lady, I’m content to lose
And, perhaps, even to die,
Though from your moonlit bed, you may not choose
To know, I’m not yet ready to say goodbye.