...written as though by Mr. Sark...

Night Three-hundred Fifty-two: Inquisition

I saw a bit of a film, once
on a commercial airliner;
garroted a trio in the lavatory
whilst parted lovers reunited
on screen. Love, we are parted--
as lips poised in shock,
lids in waking,
fingers splayed before groping,
needing some truth, solid, on
which to settle.

The anniversary of when you
left my world--our game of chase,
our life together--looms
a thick, white question mark
punctuating clouds of doubt.

I collect moments, sensations;
judge them less moving without you.
I celebrate no accomplishments,
take no interest as days pass.
Gaining only ennui, wretched
similarity to all days since last
I beheld your countenance.

So often they asked, in that small
unprivate cell; questioning
with forceful consonants.
Until I no longer knew the answer
rightly correct, and dreamed
each waking night, each moment
made unconscious from inflicted pain,
that I had spirited you away,
discreetly, quietly, as smoothly as air
on your unspoiled skin, and hid you,
our days shared in pumpkin shell perfection;
exotic, undisturbed,
entirely our own.


Disclaimer:This work is not affiliated in any way with the ABC spy series Alias, or, for that matter, Mr. Sark, whose poetry--until such time as he wishes to make it public--remains unsung, unfeted, and largely unknown.
by: Neftzer 2003 (c)
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From my website, Mr. Sark Writes Loves Poetry royaltoby.com / alias / sark.html