She...

She was the canvas onto which I painted
My colorful joys and my days to come
She gave ink to my wounded pen
That wrote the verses of a desperate dreamer.

Will the world ever know, and understand
Without her, the poetry within me is never found?
Will they realize she is the art with which I pronounce myself human?
Hopeful they will, for I leave none to indulge my being.

I leave my masterpieces to glorify her existence
Her non ceasing incandescent beauty
I leave my art to perform its magic
In moving and disrupting emotions of generations to come
To show how much a poet has fallen deeply,
Madly, and completely
Into the grasps of a love he never got over
To show the omnipotent, god-like power of the human heart
In raising the dead, and putting suffering to an end.

You who read these lines learn
That this poet's intention was never to be called upon
Remember not his name, but remember the reason for his verse
Learn that this dreamer sighs as he wishes
An end to his mortified soul.

I say this bitter farewell, with an unshed tear
I am sorry…