The Lover

I sit, at night, writing a poem

To say though I left you, I love you still –

Yet where is the truth of my pain.

Did I dread the friends,

The tongues that turned against us –

No man’s word disturbs me now.

Was it for son or daughter

Who must live their own lives –

They do not need me now.

Was it for love of my wife –

For haven, or a hiding place –

I sit in her house like a ghost.

Was it for my work – I do not know –

It is all, all that remains.

I have sold my heart to a demon

And shall fight him in torment for ever

-       And that is the truth of my pain,

As I sit, writing a poem to you.