I've searched and searched, and this is probably the most depressing poem I've written. I posted it here a couple years ago. Some liked it, some thought it was OTT.
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To the Woman I Love
How many years I've loved you, who cannot return
my love, how many tears have wet my broken bed,
like seeds sown in the darkness, where no stem is born,
but where the breath that speaks of love says love is dead,
and sounds like silence, and like depth, and solitude,
that faintly go and then as faintly come around
again, like silent blackbirds in a winter wood,
like violins and voices stilled and void of sound,
until there's no more counting, no more new amount
or number, and we just let go the hem of time
that shrinks and shrivels in the pitch it was made of,
and heart and mind forget what it had meant to count,
and can't conceive the point of meter or of rhyme,
and do not understand at all a word like love.
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