No More, The Moone?

In purple loneliness,
many a-times,
when searing -
my heart throbbed,
split asunder...

In opal faithlessness,
coining rhymes,
when screaming -
my eyes sobbed,
rain, thunder...

I scarce conceived,
ever,
in splashes of crimson pain -
that inured
my bruised heart
would fold insidiously
in neat starched layers
its flightless entangled wings.
That it would cease to care,
enough.
That it would learn to live,
without loving,
enough.
That it would hunt, even scavenge,
in search of warmth,
just enough.
That it would hurt no more.
No much more.

Listless, O so listless,
once a vagabond,
this wandering gypsy -
squatting tepidly,
has shaken off colors,
all gaudy apparel.
It dances no more.
No much more.

Lifeless, O so lifeless,
once an wayfarer,
this vagrant troubadour -
speculating insipidly,
has abandoned pied pipes,
torn all manuscripts.
It sings no more.
No much more.

How, but How, O December moon?
Not having moonlight -
hurts no more.
No much more.

This apathy annihilates me,
In my own blood
I drown.

Dec. 13th, '08.