Of A Wound and its Tale

I limp alone, with a hand on my breast
content I tried for the one I loved best,
clasping my cloak, tight in my hand
rushing to flee, from this dying land,
for since you have left, so has the red,
from the roses left rotting, rest of them dead,
the dirt in my wake, rising so lofty,
reminds me of the grass, once growing so softly
And now that I reminisce, I do of your hair,
a curtain of black silk, in the arid air,
your sunburned arms, and Apollo the cruel,
yet visage non dusky, myself but a fool
held no shade, but silence so dear,
awaited the sunset, the vanquisher of fear,
but the only twilight, the omen of dark,
came therein, ushered a truth so stark,
it imprecated patience, and cursed my being,
blind is a man, whom with eyes unseeing,
looks to the horizon, for the end of the night
but dares not invoke, the sun from shear fright,
A moon it was, that seemed never to wane,
red and rising, to the sky in disdain,
the only hope, was the coming of dawn,
but the sun would be yours, forever and anon,
and Lo! it came, casting a sullenly light,
drowning my world in its melancholy sight,
Drying the wells and wilting the leaves,
Filling the air with my woeful heaves,
That was the time, first when I knew,
price of my bliss, was the memory of you,
but everything fades, and dreams are a part
of losing the ones we hold in our hearts,
let it be known, you did not leave alone,
and left but a wound, to call but my own,
Today in the noon of this undying sun,
no place to hide, and no place to run,
and although it glows now furious still,
it follows what seems her obstinate will,
to make me repent for the heart that I lost,
by burning my own, with the light in accost,
for I left you O woman, to an uncaring lover,
and the hole in my heart, is the one I now cover