They were alone at last.
On his knees.
His face wet with falling tears.
How he always liked him.
Hands clasped tight in front of him.
His voice hoarse from begging.
His knees wet with the tears that have fallen.
How he always wanted him.
He waited for the stark voice of his command.
He waited for the tantalizing touch of his control.
How he always needed him.
He knew he waited in vain.
So, he looked up at last.
In wet tears of grief.
In front of the marble headstone.
How he never imagined him.
National Poetry Month for 2021 Day 6
Muse does enjoy taking things in an unexpected direction. Sorry/not sorry.