Bold: Late Publishing

-Why are you publishing all of this just now? It’s been so long since…

-Detoxification. Must be an artist thing; I’m letting go of, or rather revealing, all of the art that is in me, that I have kept, that holds your name.
You see, when art is no longer mine or yours, it becomes a property of the world, and I have no right to keep it to myself.
The human condition has its own repertoire of poetry and emotion, memories of how men have lived and loved, grieved, died, risen, and lived to love again.
Forgive the late publishing; must have taken a while for the world to claim this one poem, this one story, this one melody, or even this one conversation.

Anna

Death knows not my solemn dream,
Dying in her’s all that seems
To light the fire in mine eye,
Touched with the flame of hers to die.

Music runneth from her lips,
Rests in the harmony of her soul,
And I will drink a thousand sips,
Sweet poison settled in her bowl.

And in my heart of hearts I’ve vowed,
Unknowingly but yet I did,
To die an amorous victim, 
Unknowingly but yet I will.

Muttered I an’ ever spoke?
To what occasion must I speak?
For hearts that wander, life that broke,
Will not mend a world so bleak.

Did not her eyes beset a fire?
Enchantment did not last a day,
But took a day and stretched it high’r,
Lit infernos in my everyday.

My Anna will not speak of love,
For time that’s longer than her own,
She’ll speak of men that travel free,
To hold on hours on the phone.

And in my heart of hearts I’ve vowed,
Unknowingly but yet I did,
To die an amorous victim, 
Unknowingly, my Anna’s will.