Rough Poetry

The Poetry is gone.
Left in a hurry
after getting dressed;
Drank the last swig of wine,
emptied my wallet
before slamming the door.
It’s mourning again,
the Sun’s accusations burning …
The Poetry asked for it rough,
begged to be hurt,
said it wanted to feel alive.
Now I feel guilty, ashamed -
the wine and wallet are inadequate,
my own death is inadequate.
My poor, sweet poem:
ravaged and abused.