He left today his last adieu
With me without a metaphor
His life or death, what do I rue
With whom I was always at war!
With a quill drenched in blood, sweat and tears
He baptized me with his pride and pain
My vain Wordsworth who spent his years/
My vain Wordsworth who lived his fears
For the pursuit of a myth most profane!
He laid me bare on his rickety desk
In a brutal ritual of rancour
I found it all the more grotesque
Being made his failures’ conjecture!
Estranged remained always our creeds
More hate than love we always shared
I counted all his rosary beads
All his litanies which now lay bared!
I am that poet’s poetry
Who lay lifeless in his very last yard
His vain words’ faithful floetry
I Am The Widow Of My Bard!
© 2023 Vikas Chandra