The Last Visit

'Twas a summer night barely quarter to one,

Thunder rattled like bullet sprays from a machine gun.

Merry winds and vibrant lightning obediently doing their chore,

Surely, news from yet another world it bore. 

With an untamed mind, I sat in the room,

Lighted dimly with dream and gloom,

Books and pen near my hand,

Measuring time by moving sand.

My grieving soul could bear no more,

Thoughts were stopped by a knock on the door. 

As late as it was, who could it be? 

Perhaps a stranger in dire need of me. 

But I stalled reasonably for I only heard it once,

Perhaps it's my soul looking for a distraction of chance. 

About to walk back down the memory lane, 

I heard the disturbing knock yet once again. 

Assured of someone outside my abode, 

I hurried thinking he might have covered quite some road. 

Paused for a while I leaned against the beam, 

Right now I just want it to be him. 

I shook  my head and cleared it of the unworthy thought, 

It can't be him 'cause little time had he bought. 

Filled with anguish, uncertainty and remorse, 

I imagined him riding the swift Pale Horse. 

There was silence everywhere but for the ticking clock, 

Climbing down the stairs, I heard the repeat of the knock.

The lamp in my hand sketched dancing shapeless shadow,

My thought was impossible, undignified and low. 

Across the hall, I ran thinking the shameful wish, 

A horrid wild stupid wish devoid of any leash. 

Faltered I yet again before doing the due, 

On opening the door I found a note saying, "My love, thank you."

Fresh tears made the parchment very, very wet.

For the last thing I did, is put a pen in his jacket. 

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