Wasting
by
Eric Martin
Affection’s
fervency
Succumbs progressively
To feverish apathy.
‘T is futility
to sear
My eyelid with
a tear —
A weak, expulsive
tear —
No inspiring remedy
For consuming
misery,
Just a tear —
sparse relief
—
An emblem of transient
grief.
They say my heart
is strong
(They are wrong
— they are
wrong),
That the fire
in my eyes,
Like ambition,
never dies.
Not so —
each sluggish
throb
Is encoupled with
a sob;
Disillusion and
despair
Are the only rivals
there;
The envenomed
wassail-bowl
Of indulgence
sates my soul;
And the zeal that
once held sway,
Like desire, burns
away.
Though I languish,
I despair not
—
Though I waste
away, I care not.
©
2007 by Eric Martin
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About the Author
Eric
Martin's
poems and translations
have appeared
in nearly fifty
print and online
journals throughout
the United States,
Canada and Great
Britain, including
The Barefoot Muse,
Calenture, Centrifugal
Eye, Contemporary
Rhyme, Lucid Rhythms,
The Road Not Taken,
Trellis Magazine,
and forthcoming
(May 2008) in
the Concelebratory
Shoehorn Review.
A complimentary
copy of his chapbook,
The Death of Orpheus,
and Other Poems,
Original and Translated,
can be requested
at: emart40x@yahoo.com
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