Letters to My Widow

After hours,
sometime near
the 2 a.m. mark
the downers I swallowed to
extinguish my spark fight
sleep’s embers-

(if you remember
nothing else,
remember

you were the only
part of me left
intact.)

Don’t fret for
my spirit, the broken
appearance, censured to
death,
censored by
black bars while pencils
shade the regret I may
never speak
another
word.

You are,
my dearest,
the most
fearless inspiration

but this constant
climate
of
misinterpretation has
imposed a form of
stasis

I just
can’t break- my heart’s
vegetative state- kept
artificially
alive until a date
still yet to be
determined,

a condition that will
worsen until
objectivity triumphs over
purpose.

I will love
you to
the end
of time.

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