Tropes

This room here is half lit, and so am I,
Watching the stars for signs that never come,
Inventing stupid reasons not to cry,
And crying anyway, roughly, struck dumb
When numbness had been my most devout wish.
Somehow, I'm swamped by feelings I don't want,
Don't need, can't use. Revenge may be a dish --
But not when I'm the object. I'm not gaunt;
I should be gaunt. Instead, I'm old and fat,
I breathe dust, contemplating suicide,
But give it up. I'll wear an old straw hat,
Recalling how we both cried, lied, died, sighed.
This is the end of everything, all hopes,
But I write sonnets: copes, slopes, ropes, mopes, tropes.