On Saying Goodbye To A Special Acquaintance.

[rollingbrianjones]

On Saying Goodbye To A Special Acquaintance.
 
Released toward infinite limbo my mimic’s hand
Parts and cries with the palm it craves and
Plagiarises with every breath. She takes
And makes a newfound exit, few mistakes
Shake her path, unlike mine, confined;
My accursed time unwinds with wine,
For now we’re lost, stuck in the vestibule
Never to progress to the feast, cruel
That we are never to reach beyond
Our first door’s welcome. Abscond
To cowardly safety; ‘tis not for I-
I die, in a different manner, my eye
Bloodshot; yours bland as butter,
Hear the sandy wind, the mild mutter
Of an unfulfilled, complacent life
Upon your conscience; heavy, rife.
Your doing, your will; your brow
This is upon. I’ll leave you. How?
I do not know. Ciao.

[Brownlie]

On Saying Goodbye To A Special Acquaintance.- Two prepositions in the title, consider making it more condensed.
 
Released toward infinite limbo, my mimic’s hand -- The enjambment without punctuation is confusing.
Parts and cries with the palm it craves and
Plagiarises with every breath. She takes -- Kind of interesting idea. Your splitting the self here, and you know, going towards madness, which is always fun. 
And makes a newfound exit, few mistakes -- Can't tell what a newfound exit is. 
Shake her path, unlike mine, confined;
My accursed time unwinds with wine, -- With all the i's in this line, the line stands out. However, I don't think this is your strongest line. 
For now we’re lost, stuck in the vestibule -- A vestibule is a nice liminal place for a parting, between coming and going. However, "for now" is kind of sloppy English when the poem should probably use more precise wording. 
That we are never to reach beyond
Our first door’s welcome. Abscond
To cowardly safety; ‘tis not for I- -- You've got a sort of Prufrock thing going on, but I don't like "tis" unless your aping earlier versions of English. 
I die, in a different manner, my eye
Bloodshot; yours bland as butter, -- Hey, I really like bland as butter.
Hear the sandy wind, the mild mutter
Of an unfulfilled, complacent life
Upon your conscience; heavy, rife.
Your doing, your will; your brow
This is upon. I’ll leave you. How?
I do not know. Ciao.

I liked the bland as butter description, and there's a good vocabulary in here. However, I don't think you've articulated what you want to be saying here to the best of your ability. If you want an exercise for revision, you may want to write what you're trying to express in clear prose and then edit that into a poem. Good luck.

[rollingbrianjones]

Thanks for reading - I think I'm seeing a pattern since I've used this site, i.e. things that are clear to me when writing are not made clear in what I actually put down. So def need to work in that respect... this is about a romance that was, but wasn't (long term), due to another not taking risks and settling for a steadier, easier relationship. And my thoughts about this. Not sure how much that is made clear, but am definitely going to try and put more clarity in further writings. And yes, always going toward madness, without ever reaching it! Prose idea may work, I just hate writing feelings in prose in short. Maybe I hide behind verse... Thanks again.

[Sparkydashforth]

I like the antique flavor of this work, but feel it is overwritten,
especially in the opening lines.  For instance in L1 'infinite' seems affected.
On L6 'accursed' feels too theatrical.
In many poems the use of "tis" would annoy me, but here,
and in this overall context it feels appropriate, in fact
that whole section f0llowing adds color and a new energy to the poem.

You have employed some insightful observations also, so good stuff!

On Saying Goodbye To A Special Acquaintance.
 
Released toward infinite limbo my mimic’s hand
Parts and cries with the palm it craves and
Plagiarises with every breath. She takes
And makes a newfound exit, few mistakes
Shake her path, unlike mine, confined;
My accursed time unwinds with wine,
For now we’re lost, stuck in the vestibule
Never to progress to the feast, cruel
That we are never to reach beyond
Our first door’s welcome. Abscond
To cowardly safety; ‘tis not for I-
I die, in a different manner, my eye
Bloodshot; yours bland as butter,
Hear the sandy wind, the mild mutter
Of an unfulfilled, complacent life
Upon your conscience; heavy, rife.
Your doing, your will; your brow
This is upon. I’ll leave you. How?
I do not know. Ciao.