In knowing neither malady nor cure,
I cannot help but drown in my disease.
I sense that I am sick, but am unsure
What treatment can suffice for woes like these:
The sense of being severed, split in half,
With part of me submerged in floods of tears
And part of me in laughter. Shall I laugh
Or cry when I consider all the years
When to our wedding vows I always clung,
Despite all your adulteries and flings?
Should mirth or sorrow mark the song that’s sung?
Should wine or coffee grace the cups of kings
Whose concubines flirtatiously appear?
Whenever love is far, can love be near?
© 2018 A. Pope