Loss

Once, I did foreshadow
what was to come about;
I knew the notions gathered
would be a grievous clout.
Palpaple was the past
but even more its aftermath,
for nothing else could have cast
from the precious marvel last
but my anguish so steadfast.
For inevitable was its retire,
and I could not extinguish,
could not deplete the fire
of somber when did it singe the attire
of my sweet serpent of a liar
that was my own soul on some level higher
of sad, a sadness for the absence most dire.
And a fallicious snake I had been to me
for ever clutching the cruel decree
to think somehow it would not leave.
But abandoned have I been,
and where fault lies is not wherein
nor who on but rather on my own sin
which pressed for loss, no battle's win.