Not All are Evil
- jan-u-wine
I
sit in your study,
now.
Your books.
Your chair.
Your desk.
Your pen.
All
that is missing is
you -
and that is missing
all.
Grey winter
followed a harvest
leached
of colour
the year you left.
T’was hard.
Cruel hard,
Master,
and only the Flowers
of my heart
to see me through.
Master.
Sometimes,
even they
could not lighten
the darkness,
fill the emptiness
within.
And I would sit here,
here,
at your desk,
the candle burning low,
and wonder if,
in truth,
the voice I heard,
telling me that
all
was well
could really be yours,
winding,
like silver smoke
through the curtain
I knew
you had passed,
or only
that your Sam had, at the last,
found
a breaking point
in the hard wheel of the world.
At length,
the nights grew shorter,
(as nights will do),
at length,
soft
grey rain,
warm as a breath,
fell
upon the face of the Row.
Like tears, this rain,
like the earth,
shining
and
growing
and
living
between the crystal
drops.
Like
every whisper’d good-bye
twined about
every joyous well-met.
Like we shall be.