Widower
He sits in silent feeling,
Staring straight through his ceiling,
Seeking sibylline starlight,
To behold in blinding night.
Vigil for a vivid dream,
Mourning until morning’s gleam,
Which is worse the dream or curse,
Of lonely life in time’s hearse.
Pangs of conscious killing him,
Suppressed sorrow filling him,
Wrath of rue a war within,
Hidden hurt beneath his skin.
Stoic silence face of stone,
Swallowing the seeds he’s sown,
Choking on memories’ chalk,
Blows from loss he cannot block.
Dare he slip to sleep once more?
To soar with shadows he adores?
Or stay sleepless staring blind,
Into darkness’ deep resign?
Silent pain he pushes down,
So he can live lest he drown,
But he is wracked with regret,
For love lost he’ll ne’er forget.
I wrote this poem in the form of an ancient Irish deibhidhe guilbnech dialtach.