Sestina ... or ... Why I'm not a Poet
A damp ray of light
Fell onto the table
At which I sat. The blue
Air circled the room
In which he paced. The life
We once shared was now broken.
I stood up from the broken
Chair, and shying away from the light,
I pondered out ruined life
As I set the kitchen table.
The children came from the other room
And we all ate on blue
Dishes. I felt blue
As the kids cleaned. No broken
Glasses tonight. He left the room
And turned off the light
Sitting on the end table.
What happened to the life
That once we shared? A life
Of joyous Sundays with blue
Skies, picnicking in the table-
Lands of Nevada, the broken
Canyon walls reflecting the light
Of the sunset. No room
Now for such stores. Room
Only for a shattered life
Hidden behind a shaded light
And dingy, dusty blue
Curtains. The broken
Mirror, reflects the metaphorical table
Of injustices. This table
Has seen me without room
To breathe. Me, a broken
Shell of a broken life,
Always sad and blue
As I learn to live without his light.
Now I sit at my broken table
As the damp light fills the room
And I try to live a life less blue.