My Juliet - 5 : 13

My Poet - 5

My heart-- t'were thine, sweet Poet, even then;

Our love notes wove the gossamer of my dreams,

Water to my thirst, our paradise.

The Fates hath shown me none but suffering,

Yet Poet, thou hath given none but bliss. 

In worst of storms, my lifeline didst thou cast.

T'was safety found, and trust placed in thy hands. 

Not a whit of my love was pretense,

Unchanged in manner or intensity.

My 'final' note wore first taint of deceipt;

I claimed a fearful heart, but nay. The truth:

Of my illness I had just been told. 

Ne'er before hath my sobs fell so hard;

No task so daunting had I undertook,

Allowing common sense to persevere...

My heart lay shattered, my chest hollow,

Yet to bear thine eyes upon me now,

To have thee see the wretch I would become...

...Thy presence at my door, it gave me pause.

Moving on was forefront then, my love;

Our passion thus a perfect memory, 

Froze in time, a fantasy preserved.

Thou couldst think of me as only bliss,

And of my suffering be unaware. 

Yet there stood thee, before my widened eyes,

A torrent of emotion overcame;

My only wish to be in thine embrace,

Though the truth lurked e'er haunting me. 

O Poet-- would that I could use your quill!

Countless nights spent struggling with the words.

And all the while, such pow'r thou gave to me,

To know within thine eyes I bear no stain. 

Stronger still did my denial grow,

For tempting thine escape had always been.

Yet just as hearts tell tales beneath the floor,

Deafening, my truth's noise had become.

Please, let not my terror earn thy hate;

For so ignored was treatment, till too late.

- Juliet.

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- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.