The Widower

The shadow
in the house,
a sad glow,
clicking mouse
as the screen
flashes bright,
tears unseen
in the night.
Solitaire
while alone,
night-owl stare,
on his own,
empty room,
empty chair,
dusty broom,
stagnant air.
He breathes in,
he sighs out,
one more win,
joy dies out.
Home was built
for his bride,
now her quilt
lays aside,
unfinished,
unfulfilled,
all he wished,
all he willed
now is gone
like his youth,
like the dawn,
this is truth:
life is hard,
it’s a trick
of each card
we don’t pick
and death comes
to wound hearts,
nothing numbs
when grief starts.
New game now
and tears spread,
thinking how
life misled
him to think
they would be
link to link—
he to she.
The clock ticks,
moon descends,
finger clicks,
this game ends
and the night
grows more still,
misty flight
of wind’s chill,
a cold hand
on his face,
Borderland,
time and space,
memories,
old, lost ghosts
of far seas
and warm coasts
now adrift,
now alone,
now a rift,
Twilight Zone.
Life is strange,
life is loss
it has range
at a toss
of the cards,
of the glass,
of the shards
when lives pass.
Fist now bruised,
screen now cracked,
heart contused,
cards now stacked
against joy,
against peace,
must destroy
till surcease.
Broken mouse,
shattered life,
darkened house,
beloved wife.

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