3

FOR EVER MORE
In the cover of night, I spied him.
A body bruised and far too slim.

Lounging in a putrid chair.
He sat, no longer breathing, with a ghostly stare.

Let it not be so, I whispered.
Not...NO MORE, I tempered.

He was my savior, my guide.
He offered edits with pride.

He was always right.
Even when statements rang no longer bright.

God, bring him back, I yelled.
My tears would not be felled,

I fell to the ground and cried.
Then at long last, I sighed.

We had killed him, beat him up.
We underappreciated him, and so he gave it up.

I looked to the ceiling with eyes rolled back,
Too much, too much, no one to take up slack.

He worked himself unto death.
Oh, I screamed, he never should have left.

It was all our fault; I am sorry to say,
That Evil no longer breaths, no longer lives this day!

I should have offered my gratitude.
And done so without malicious attitude.

But then, what ho!, as I continued my self-centered beating
I heard a faint reading.

A reading, yes! Soft, soft words out-loud were spoken.
I am now undone! Was he not, not broken?

I crawled to his side, ever so hesitant
My hands finally gripping a decorative, stuffed pheasant.

Strange, I thought, and genteelly let go.
Then I tentatively tapped his bare and untrimmed toe.

Would he look to me?
Would he too see?

I am his minion, forever at his side.
Basking in his editorial pride.

Yes, he croaked, what do you need?
I giggled inside, for he had not given up, no indeed.

I whispered quietly
and ever so rightly.

Evil, sir. Please, for ever more,
For ever more, be the editor at my door.

--Marcella