I feel a cold Autumn wind at my back, and rain,
Walking away, or trying, from the past.
Had She decreed that you were honest then,
or could have loved me well – well,
it would not change the scene.
I reached for your face at midnight
and it wasn’t there to touch, but gone.
I strain my mind to think on it:
half a lifetime that started as some pleasant dream
and turned to hell and nightmares of the heart,
plodding on and giving everything I had and was
to some phantom screenplay
you wrote yourself out of, and into
another man’s arms and bed.
I am left here disillusioned and confused.
Was it a good, is there some purpose
to so much of life spent dreaming?
What of waking, I want to know,
to what end or purpose shall I go?
I cannot abide this season’s change –
it does not turn to winter, but Antarctica
whose mirages are of love
where none was ever.


About A. S. Ellis

I am always learning. Always. And that is as it should be.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Mirage

  1. Stephan says:

    Painful, yet beautifully expressed.

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