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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 began
writing poetry
in 1994, yet has
only recently
returned to it
after a hiatus
of seven years.
He has had poems
published in numerous
print and online
journals -- recently,
in Nomad’s
Choir, Samsara,
Suzerain Enterprises,
and The Iconoclast.
He is also the
author of five
chapbooks, published
(though now out-of-print)
by The Plowman,
and a book-length
collection, Broken
Reflections, self-published
for private circulation.
His literary and
artistic inspirations
include the poetry
of Lord Byron
and Edgar A. Poe,
the classical
music of Hector
Berlioz and Franz
Liszt, and the
artwork of Eugene
Delacroix, Francisco
Goya, and Max
Klinger. He currently
resides in Presque
Isle, Maine, and
can be contacted
at the following
email address:
emart40x
[AT] yahoo.com
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