The Poet

 The poet wrote so his lover would forgive him. For he had trampled on that love in self-protection and now knew what he had lost.

He wrote night and day, read night and day, hoped night and day for a morning when the sun would shine in blemishless beauty.

That morning never came for his lover had healed her wounds and had blossomed in the love of another man who loved her purely. 

The poet remained a poet.