It grates upon me when you depart,
When I know the doubts I pen and store,
Within these diaries of my heart,
Are naught but foolish thoughts of yore.

To you, a day is all you need,
To remind me through your playful air,
Or when you sleep, your breath at ease,
I watch in silence, lost in care.

Your carriage rolls, unaware,
Of the treasure it doth bear along,
I spend a month, a season’s fare,
Seeking the door where you belong.

Though blame is not yours, not at all,
Yet sometimes I accuse in jest,
A touch of hypochondria’s thrall,
Fearing each turn might leave me pressed.

But you prove me wrong each time,
And I laugh before the mirror’s face,
With an honorary degree in rhymes,
A madman restored to rightful place.

How many days shall pass away,
Between the courtyard and the loft,
As I sing of burdens to those who stray,
Who neither listen nor speak soft.

How many verses shall I weave,
With naught to say, no truth to reveal,
What must be said, I do not grieve,
Or perhaps, I choose to keep it sealed.

For years I’ve waited, watched the door,
Yet you had already arrived,
My problem now, I face no more,
For I can now really call it life.

Marco Delrio

Of Doubts