On Her Death

Midnight slumber flows thick through slient room;
Well-dressed, well-kept, and well-nigh destitute
Of hope that spurns the weary soul to sing.
Eyes, long-dry, crammed tightly against a brain
That throbs and throbs as insanity beats
His painful rhythym, open to behold
Nothing, save the fear of reality.
Fear, and an empty room where once lay love,
Of touch and another and of the world
That was at once brilliant with memory
And still so dissonant with cruelty.