Warnings: Death. Wangst.
Notes: Ars(e) Poetica #11 :: March 3, 1998. I hate this one. A lot. I was going through some shit with the wife, at the time, and well… I was a fucking mess. I was watching her come apart, and there was nothing I knew how to do about it. In the end, I was a fag, at heart, and she was a lesbian. It ended really poorly, later that year, as these things do. Also, I would like to publicly state that it was my fault, and I’m a dick, just in case you like me and were thinking of blaming her or the circumstances. We’re still good friends. I’m still in love with her.
Isolati, how can I stand by
And watch destruction take you by the hand
To see your devolution makes me cry
My tiny tears enough to flood the sand
I gaze into your eyes, they shine so bright
But, with exhilaration or with woe
I dare not speculate, lest I be right
And thus extinguish your internal glow
Will you melt, at last, into the sea
To join the foam that captivates your mind?
Bestow your bless’d epistle unto me
With you I sat, in bleak repose, and pined
Believe t’was you I loved, as you expire
For you in my heart e’er burns desire