Playing The Piano, Mournfully, Behind Window Panes Dripping With Rain

One more hour of melting candle remaining
and another five left of night.
He fingers Chopin’s ‘Funeral March’
over and over and over again…
using the repetition
to enter an almost trance-like state.
He’s tried scrying black mirrors,
runes and tarot decks…
hovering a desperate, searching mind
over the actual spread
to alchemise an image above the reading.
Just one sign, a glimpse,
a flicker of Her still in the air around him,
like she planned and promised
in the days leading up to the End.
He refuses to re-visit the boneyard…
they did not bury his Love but a shell.
Instead, he’s seeking her essence
within the swirling shadows,
willing clairvoyancy
and whispering distractedly to half-ghosts.
He knows the immeasurable black ‘Thing’
which twisted up Heathcliff inside
and the agony of living with
the Bright Side of your Soul… now Missing.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world. He yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books Scribblings Of A Madman (Lit Fest Press); Poetry From The Nearest Barstool; and a split poetry book The Raven And The Vagabond Heart with Bethany W Pope. You can also read his poems and stories here! Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.