A portion of me probes
Your unsatiated intent,
Searching for the reasons
Of such quick witted descent.
Wouldn’t the forthcoming
Of ceaseless gratuitous surges
Cause one to remain motionless.
Would you really have simply left,
Without having wet your hunger
With the form that you swore you adored,
Without listening to the heralded echoes
Designed to inflate your already inflated ego.
I ponder how you’d leave,
Lover of art, truth, love, and grief,
With your curiosity piqued,
Without having heard your unsung worship,
Without having read your exalted narrative.
Was it because
I don’t know enough.
Was it really love
That you desired
Or didst thou merely seek
To see thyself donned in glory.
The lies you spelled
Of how Love was the answer,
Away from me.