Observations

( after T.S. Eliot )
  
   
A literary man of books,  
I’d taken her as a lover.  
Then yesterday I felt it time  
To break it off for another.  
   
The tables of my plan, on me  
Have turned the way that she is done.  
To moving on, ideal and pure;  
I cannot change, or sully her.  
   
Her bare feet trip lightly across  
The balcony in early morn’,  
Where no sun’s heated flush had yet  
Graced patio of Venus’ breath.  
   
To this reflection, heart and soul,  
In spite of everything I weave,  
She in her diaphanous glow  
When my intent had been to leave.  
   
Aroused in pagan celebrate  
For having known of her like this.  
Not having slept through any part  
To what was my defeated night.  
   
I am a slave of memories  
To a girl with sun in her hair.  
A shadow matching every step  
To forget I was ever there.