In Waiting

While waiting for your ghost to reappear,
I hold your promises insanely high,
And mope within your scriptured snare –
The overwhelming question remains, why:
Why did you go? And why will you return?
Why should I wait for you? Why not let go?
Your echoed words remain my fixed concern –
Why do I still recite them? Till I know:
You god, king, hero on your flying horse,
Armed with your sword or wand or thunderbolt,
Appear in sky to me with light in course,
And claim the heart of this your patient dolt.
This quatrain’s words do make my body tremble –
Cut up, I die for you to reassemble.