I wake from dreams from which I never left,
the days must think me detached and bereft.
I gaze in a pool that spilled from my eyes,
a saline mirror the eld in me scries.

But judge not the heart that lingers in pain,
and bleeds in the worlds where memories remain,
for such are the realms where I can still feel,
‘neath layers of self, contrition doth peel.

Life sans her love is numbing and mirthless,
stripping bare its illusion of purpose,
rather I drink the potions of Circe,
then drift like dust into slumber’s mercy.

Vers libre in three quatrains.