I attempted to write a poem for you,
but you were nowhere to be found-
no stark imagery, nor depth of sound.
So I wrote only of losing all sense of you,
without my eyes, ears, hands nor raping tongue.
Words sunk meekly though the rhythm follows
in my sleep where I awaken after no shut eye,
discovering your pillow intact: the fluffy aftermath
of you- an imprint, residue of your vain head.
My scissors gleams as a lost sword of Arthurian Legend,
histrionically excising all as I wallow naked, immersed
in the feathers of a very bad Guineverian dream:
How you killed coyly that unsuspecting bird.