The clock strikes twelve and all is almost well
I’m close to warm with pillows to console
me, as I lay here thinking of what once was dear
the vows, the words before the jabs and wound.
The night is dark and in the silence beats
my heart, and all is almost well, it’s fair
to say, I’m yet not cured, from flowing fair-
ness of your hair, your breath I used to know so well
beside before bereft to these, my broken beats.
these knells of night, that never can console
my bleeding heart, my burning wound
why did our travel cease too soon. Oh dear.
do you still recall in sabred words, how dear
it was to share it all, to do what’s just and fair
and how you had me tightly wrapped and wound,
tamed around your pleasant will, before the well
was filled, before we smashed our destiny’s console.
Before we bathed in somber march-drum-beats
of war I slumbered in you arms on heartbeat
lullabies and you claimed me to be dear
to you, a fearless lover, loving to console
with cotton candy dreams; and there our bed was fair
in dappled sheen and our life was close to well.
Before your tongue had cut this blistered wound.
Do you recall how our star-ships went and wound
mechanics, galaxies, mended light to gentle beats.
We sailed on symphonies we dwelled too well
in dust of stars our fears were few and dear
when somewhere on a comet’s tail there was a fair
for weary travelers like us to rest, console
our homesickness, re-program ship’s console
to fix the sails, and heal our gangrened wounds.
After all this time, how was it even fair
when your decided it was time to split? “I’m beat”
you said, “Let’s just be friends my dear”
You left me for an alien djinn and wished me well.
The air is bright and fair the lights, A clock beats
one, no message on my console yet; I pick my wounds;
without you, my dear, there’s nothing really well.
This is a sestina I wrote because Victoria challenged me to write one. I still think Sestinas are hard to write (and maybe read too). At least I tried to write it as a Science Fiction story.
February 18, 2015