Mortality or the Slipping of a Mind
Not
A rosy
sunset
Warm
Explosive
Bright
Beauty
Winking against
The immortal sun and the declining moon.
You are a king of the ages, and I know that
And knew that long
Before my virtue
Was tested in
Regards to You
I would be punished
For my love of you.
Now, my immortal king, I writhe in agony because I do not
Know when I will encounter you again. Is my heart like
A stone that you will rip your trophy from
And then leave me to grow vines of atrophy,
Callousness, shame, and reviling? Are you
Simply going to toss me aside when I’m needed
No more? Should I even be thinking these thoughts
About your noble, perfect self? Maybe the water is starting to rot my
Brain, and I will become senile and old while you will never wilt, never
Be anything but Arthur, the bearer of the only sword I shall ever touch, caress, and enfold.
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