September, waning

The lights go on, the traffic slithers,
Dusk settles, her smile withers,
The clutter on my table beckons,
I escape or so I reckon....

She will call, to let me know,
She finds me hard-hearted, and slow,
This I laugh at, soft and low:
Once I was Mercutio.

Once I was the fiery noble,
Swinging from the Church's steeple,
Holding forth with tongue and sword,
Today I'm terminally bored.

It comes, it will come,
The anger that drives me,
Makes me strong, gives joie de vivre,
And sets my raging heart free.