Tears were never wasted on you but the anger

diminished as it should when somebody dies in your mind.

I see the face in other books and feel the sick-

ness return at the thought of you.

A Sonnet for the love of you, the memory of the cult

captured and freed with remorse, the handshake

unfulfilled and unanswered, my fault.

It matters not as I still care and hope that you are happy now with nothing at stake.

On your own request you relegated yourself from a paragraph to a sentence,

never realising, or perhaps secretly hoping,

that when the third edition hits the shelf

I had forgiven you for your misdemeanours and thoughtless superiority

and made sure you at least had the footnote on page six

that you deserved.

Ian D. Hall 2014