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 widely published Welsh writer who deals in the Lowlife, Outsider, and Outlaw genres.  He wrote his first poem as a teenager following his release from the (Infamous) Borstal ‘HMP Portland’, and he has been creating Literary Terrorism ever since. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.