The Path of Lovers
He returns, disturbing peaceful microbalance
painfully rebuilt from the ruins
left when last he walked this road.
At her gate he stands again, manorialism,
and inflaming superiority intact,
champing at the bit for more pain.
A spindrift of emotions sweeps over her,
cloaking her heart with a manteau of
lust/fear/anger/...what?
A cancer of love-fed hatred
grows deep within, lighting the
inalterable path, the knife appears...
Now he lies dead, returned to a
final calaboose, self-made, sheets twisted
round naked body like a Punjab's lungi
Cured, she stares at this lifeless shell,
What path, she wonders, brought
her love, her inamorata, to this end?
©William Davis1/18/99