~ Lovelorn ~


When into the recesses of my heart I fall,

          There cannot be found a sufficiently deep call.

          Though my forlorn state dreams for the smallest of touch,

          Every longing and stretching reach seems, Oh, so much.


Fogged in, bound, and so weak--how on earth can I know

          The tunnel or path out from this abyss to go?

          Only knowing that from it I must surely come,

          If into this fallen life there might shine some sun.


How my love's hurt and pain so cripple and dispose,

          Throwing her into confusion beyond repose,

          Recollecting times past of wounds so deep and sore;

          Halt--a heedless plea is made to settle the score.


What scream can I do to appease this kind of pain,

          Running so deep, so solidly linked as a chain?

          How can I understand--even begin to stroke,

          What seems to be the hub of so many a spoke?


Harder and darker it gets--this abyss of mine;

          When each tumbling step up, seems to be a decline.

          For each effort I exert seems to make her scream,

          Though only from my heart I wish my love to stream.


What abyss can this be that so confines and blinds,

          Scratching our broken hearts and confusing our minds,

          Searing away a long sought wish that now seems lost--

          A treasure that cannot be bought at any cost?


Then I begin to see some shape to this abyss,

          Like a small dim light flickering with a slow hiss.

          This plight is something worse than a rude helpless state

          That's laid my heart open upon an ice-cold slate.


This slate upon which my heart so openly lies

          Seems boxed so tightly with my very own heart-cries:

          Screamings--these are, in their longing attempt to reach,

          To touch . . . approach something of this imposing breach.


The screams of the past increase this distance, so cold;

          Whichever way we turn, these dark shadows--so bold.

          They spin--twist--churning graves over, over again:

          Pushing up, up the dead--a new walk to begin.


All seems lost in this helpless abyss of Lovelorn,

          Where walking dead of a darksome past are reborn.

          For her, much more terrible than a raging sea;

          For a kind, tender heart--so much worse than for me.

Once innocence has longed under duress to care,

          And through the years has pursued to lovingly share--

          The long time resolve of a warm and precious heart

          Kindles a love that from itself, it cannot part.


Sores of many pains ago are deeply buried,

          Hoping that from their graves nothing will be ferried.

          The years press and pound to tightly secure their hold:

          Padlocked deep--only a pure heart could be so bold.


And never from those graves will those warm embers burn,

          From deep pains--even a kindled love cannot churn.

          Though a pure heart--so bold--gripping tightly to love,

          The padlocks of the past prevent the smallest shove.


And I, in this abyss, can do nothing to free,

          Or even loosen for a moment love to be;

          For every turn that is made on this ice-cold slate

          Seems to freeze whatever warmth my hurt heart would make.


"Lovelorn--what pit is this," I solemnly declare . . .

          That if I must turn elsewhere for sweet love to share;

          That no matter where I go--or on this earth search--

          Some part of my life will on an ice-cold slate perch.


For though out of the abyss I may rise one day,

          Part of my broken heart in the abyss will stay:

          Lying cold on the slate for the dank air to dry,

          Something of my past about which I will always sigh.


There will be no rejoicing on that day I rise,

          For my work will be so very hard to disguise.

          Oh--to shovel over what will be my grave past

          Will be a hard journey that cannot come too fast.


Oh, Lovelorn--sweet and callous . . . what kind of abyss?

          Though wanting to arise . . . what kind of hope is this?

          What makes us want to stay deep down beneath the earth,

          Where the dead ever lie in wait for their rebirth?


What kind of place are you, you so ugly Lovelorn--

          That keeps hearts entwined, though they are certainly torn:

          Lovelorn, who moves two souls in crude, creaking shackles;

          Bound and buried, opened and bare to rude cackles.


Sweet . . . callous--who knows what you are when you move forth?

          Two souls caught in your whirlwind of hurricane force:

          Mixed about in some sweet kind of tangled amiss,

          While longing for nothing more than a true pure kiss.


Lovelorn, you beast of unspeakable proportions:

          A fitting dark place to displace our emotions;

          You--some kind of aberration we doubtless hate,

          Yet from whom our feelings we will not let escape.


How the pendulum swings long in our broken hearts;

          Feelings we both cherish and hate flow off the charts.

          Who did what . . . who was sincere, who betrayed the most?

          Demanding this, that--we will stand our ground and boast.


All the while, that dark beast of brokenness--Lovelorn,

          Stands in the abyss for one more love to be shorn.

          We resist till we can no longer stand upright;

          It seems that now we are forever out of sight.


When then the final curtain is closed with a sigh,

          And then broken hearts pack their bags and say good bye--

          Lovelorn stands tall and larger with a very broad smile,

          As we pine and fret our lost love all the while.


And victory is now just around the corner,

          For that beast of Lovelorn is such a scorner;

          Nor will he finish till he's had all his fun,

          Shrinking good sweet love to the size of nucleon.


The hardest cruel task that has ever been sought,

          Pushing lonely tears at any cost to be bought,

          Begins to push from the sight any kind of hope,

          So that the soul can begin in the night to cope.


As that lonely soul begins its new bad estate,

          The last piece of love is swept up with his cruel rake;

          Mixed with hope and haste is thrown to the wind of scorn

          As two loves are now in darkness forever shorn.


          The job done . . . a satisfied smug smile is born

          On the proud head of that darksome beast of Lovelorn.


                                     by  M.G. Maness, January 1987


4th poem of 7 in my book PreciousHeart-BrokenHeart

    with these and in order of appearance (click & see them):  


      1-  What Kind of Wanderer

      2-  Wasteland

      3-  Loneliness

      4-  Lovelorn

      5-  Hope-Trip of a Broken Heart

      6-  The Dirge

      7-  Beyond the Black Oak Wood Door


~ Click Here to e-mail me at:  MG@PreciousHeart.net ~