Why?

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

You ask why I will not respond to calls;

Leaving communication neglected;

Letting silence greet appeals, as love falls

Discontented, and spirit’s infected?

Your indifference pierced my heart countless times.

Though, I confess, I granted admittance

To thy blade; an accomplice in these crimes;

Guilty, somehow, for want of resistance.

Still, you endure as muse: a soul’s agony –

Equal parts torment and inspiration –

Your face lingering in memory;

Ecstasy through pain: my devil’s bargain.

   Affection withered afflicted by lies;

   Yet, feigning ignorance, you ask me why?

Guilt

By Bud Koenemund

For T.

I stand guilty; entrapped in self-made plight.

Abandoned by fate, sans defense, I fear,

‘Gainst offenses for which I am indict:

Those of madman, lover, and sonneteer.

I did not think this fervor illicit –

Seeking favor by show of affection.

But, it seems my passion’s too explicit;

And heart’s at fault for miscalculation.

The crime? Infatuation. Foul sin? Lust.

Although I swear my intention was pure,

This imperfect world oft’ inhibits trust,

So your pen wrought the prison I endure.

   Though I’ll not carry this shame forever,

   I must lament the amity severed.

There's Nothing More to See Here

The chalk outline, white against the concrete,
Marks the scene of the crime, as a crowd
Gathers, like greedy vultures, in the street.
“Did someone jump?” a voice calls out loud;
“Heart attack?” “Yes,” a cop answers, as he
Unspools police tape to control the mob.
“Well…no,” he thinks to himself. “Not really.”
“People, move back now, let me do my job!”
As a cold drizzle falls, he turns to see
Initials scrawled inside the dusty heart
Blur slowly, then melt away in a sea
Of tears, as two lovers, now torn, depart.
“Folks,” the cop says, as a dream disappears,
“Move along; there’s nothing more to see here!”