Time of death eighteen hundred hours.
Yet Poetry, upon her demise, rested not in peace. Within me her ghost churned like the rotting remnants of a forgotten lunch. She was not mine to love, and not mine to smother.
Oh, she put up a fight. Her words filled my brain as I stared at the blackboard trying to digest a series of equations proving that Shrodinger's cat simultaneously lives and dies. Her rhythms echoed in my head in the shower in time with the rushing of the water. Her observations tainted my notes with wordplay and adjectives.
Soon my wandering focus locked onto science like a sniper rifle onto its target. Beneath a sea of equations poetry floundered. Within minutes, she expired.
With her, however, she took a piece of me. Though my negligence killed her, we once tangoed across lakes and forests, through caverns and sunsets. Without her my sanity wavered. The numbers lacked luster and the hours lacked time. Meanwhile her angry ghost battered my insides, ravaging the life she once sustained.
Dear Poetry, my art, how I loved you. I took for granted your powers for quelling my rage, igniting my enthusiasm, and soothing my sadness. Your disgruntled spirit will soar among my thoughts again, rather than withering in the pit of my stomach.
In remembrance of your death I light this candle between two mirrors, recalling the infinity of your possibilities. I tilt back my head and holler at the stars, recalling the power of your voice. I melt a clock, recalling your surrealistic wisdom.
And in the midnight hour, my Poetry, you are resurrected. Rise, Poetry! Rise from the ashes of squandered sight and imbue me with your colors! Rise from the depths of subduction and unleash your sea of lava! Rise from your prison of numbers and seduce me with your words!
I drink tonight to Poetry, my long lost love, and her imminent return. May her whisper greet me when I wake.
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