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.