The troubadour - a poem by Chris Zachariou

I go back to that

graveyard where all
my dreams are buried—
a prison in my head
I made to keep her;

back to the years
of longing and of loss
to the blackness and the pain.

I watch her sleep.
Her hair—a forest of wild curls
her naked limbs—a gateway to sin;
and I wonder, what kind
of dreams make her smile.

Soon, a familiar scent rises—
it is the scent of counterfeit love.
But I guess I've always known
she was never more than
just a troubadour looking for a
heart to rehearse her love songs.