Writings :: Poems :: An Open Letter to Alfred

An OpenĀ LetterĀ to Alfred

My Dearest Alfred,
who did You think You were
to tell me what is better?
You did to yours what
mine did to me.
You left.

You instruct me,
straight through living lips that
strive to drive my
sorrow away. They
spew your long-dead,
false facts.

Dear Alfred,
what was Loss to You?
was waking a chore?
was breathing a bad dream?
did You slap on a smile to hide Your
screaming mind?

when the vessels of Your wisdom
spit Your truth into my eye,
do You repent? are You in heaven
or otherwise, devising a time machine,
so You can choose Your
words again?

Alfred,
i shall not call You liege.
You are the Lord of Ignorance.
Your long-dead lips sing to me,
songs of a thing You
never knew.

Love is a leaf on the wind that
tickles my fingertips as the festering
stitch in my side filters my breath.
It evades my grasp, but still,
mid-air, my dear.
It crumbles.

hey, Tennyson.
fuck you, okay?