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.