(A Response to Chaucer’s Prologue)
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There was a husband
A most compelling man
Charismatic, loving, and full of flare
But soon his love transformed to pain
The man had nothing left to gain
The restless nights and careless fights
He lost his vision, lost his sight
He grew too close to hollow delights
A socialite, a man of fire
Indulging was his one desire
His passion would never tire
His looks could smite, his suit fit tight
His shoes were polished, clean and bright
But his head was rotten
Crawling with maggots
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A businessman in sharp attire, watches his bride walk down the aisle.
An occasion of passion and desire, overlooked by the supplier.
Every eye in the room viewed the boon the lovers shared as they gathered this afternoon.

Each drop of blood in their veins, boiled under the flame- the fire burning in those hearts, they could never be torn apart. “I love you,” they each said, “I’ll love you till the end.”
Every memory replayed in his head, every moment in his life, every day he laid awake, waiting for this night. This man, his dream, the woman he had seen.
Today it was reality. Now this man, looked into her soul. His face was bold. His words faded into existence as he spoke cold with obstinance.

He opens his eyes.

He sat in an armchair, colored sage.
The gloomy chamber he lay in, plumed with rage.
Wrapped in his fingers- a bottle of chartreuse, perfused in his liver, as it perforated his vigor.
The intoxicant obfuscates his vision yet he could still see with precision: The matte black suit he wore, the night before.
His tie which hung from the shade, where it was mislaid.
In the distance he saw, someone lurking in the dark.
Who am I?” He spoke, to the figure hidden from the light. “Why are you here? Is everything alright?”
The shadow became a woman, the one of his dreams.
The one which he married when he got on his knee.
His wife looked right through him, with a tear in her eye, she looked at the man– not her husband– for he had died.
***