jayne, my dear jayne...

i haven't a fathom why it molests me yet;
it picks at my mind, like scavengers upon bone.
wasted, solemn, dreary as i am,
i've become your shell, shed in light of the new.
the idea of what was,
what was that idea, again?
something strong, independent, something realized,
...etc, ec& etc...
i no longer convene with words.
they cannot suit my soul like that substance of idea.
so i now live in these imagined fields,
fleeting to my byronic lover,
sheltered by the peach trees in the copse beneath my window.
it rains, the elm decays, the child wails,
and i too understand that something has died.
and those vultures cry, and creak, and crow,
vapid in their forms, so condescending,
and above it all i sit with myself,
pulling strings unheeded.
and who emerges from these shadows,
but a spectre of yourself?
have i known you, loved you, for merely a secret?
and now abhorred, why do i run from you,
to the arms of another, even less forgiving?
do i crave that spite, this irate indigence?
do i truly despise your mobility,
my insipid love that has driven you awry?
for now i turn back home,
bathing in the hours of the unwontedness that i am,
driven to those arms, this heart, that beats alone like my own...
and yet, in truth, i find my disillusionment becoming.