There had
been
a time
when his
sufferings
would
have been
described
madness.
Before that
perhaps
melancholy
but with
much darker
connotations
than the word
holds now.
Alone with
his thoughts,
lonely with
desire he
painted her.
Long,
purposeful
strokes.
He drew
from his
memory and
gave her hues
of blue
lest
they share
nothing
in common.
Her parents
followers
of a self
slaying god,
her name
came from
that book.
They called her
after that act.
He never
tired of
saying it
aloud
in reverent
whisper,
Grace.
Every
waking thought,
and most
of his slumbered
served her,
worshiping her
with pen and word.
Verses flew
from his mind
like a dove
jumped up
in a field
startling the wind
with anxious
flapping of wings
and fearful exodus.
Scarcely could
his arm
keep up-
his hand stabbing
yellowed parchment
with black
bleeding quill.
He bound
these poems
with crimson thread.
As long as
he told her story,
said her name aloud,
dreamt manic movies
of them,
day and night,
week after week ,
months maybe-
years?
She was,
love was-
real?
It was finished
when he
could go
no more
without eating-
nibbled at
some
tree borne fruit
and in a moment
was betrayed
by single
lucid
thought.
There was
no Grace
in this world,
and he didn't
want to be
here either.
He left,
his own free will.
