The Hanged Man [poem]
Hanging from a height –
your rope a way of keeping me at bay,
rather than a noose
(although it might as well be one!) –
I drop right out of sight
[although I think that I was never
In your sights
for anything more than fantasy,
consultancy,
Some token of exigency,
a convenience food
with which to ease
your pristine nights]
with you in your bed,
me in mine,
while you commit
your champagne crimes.
Your dancing heart
consumed my sprightly thoughts
for days and days and days
(I have lost count);
and when your crossbow
sprung to life,
(only at night;
and only some nights, I might add)
It felt like I was home.
For you, it was just a twirling game:
Your hesitant heart,
My ardent flames.
How could you make me
long for you
when I was only ever
going to be
a
lone
long-drawn-out
foolish fantasy?
Dangling for so long
on that wasted threadbare line,
my wanting needful heart
has now run out of
time.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 