GONe

But the angel went on and he left the sound—
A picture, a memory, a sad hope abound.
He was never there, as she slowly realized.
He was just a newcomer, and she had known
That loneliness forms and it takes a drone.1

The girl went on dreaming, as was her way,
Trying to fill some odd void of day,
Ignoring the sound, this constant sound
That always went on screaming, telling, reaming.
In its phoned-in silence, and slackened careening.2

He saw her sadness, it was apparent in her eyes,
But days had gone, and so had a disguise.
He looked upon her written words—
The last and lone, the pinnacle, the peak—
And thought of how to end a streak.3

“I’m sorry,” he wrote, “but you’ve had it wrong.
I’ve never been more than smiling face.
I tried to be a friend, but there was too much—
Too many sayings and too many verbs,
Too many efforts of advancing grace.4

“Goodbye,” he said, folding the letter.
“Go on to write, please for the better.
I’m leaving now; she’s waiting for me.
She’s been there already for a very long time.”5

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but I’m only a face.”
He turned and left, wings folded under,
Walking away, each step in sunder.6