Your scent lingers the air,
A distant fragrance,
Subtle taste akin,
An acacia honey toast,
On a midsummer’s fête champêtre.

The mind is a lone wanderer,
Perpetually in thought,
Amidst the crowds alike,
Of fantasies untouched,
And faux foresight.

Cascades of light may reach one's toe,
When fate condones it so.
The warmth, the gleam,
Of skin therein,
With the sun,
Will betimes fade.

Thus be wise,
To relish it so,
For the ray might not recur.

The sound of her heart it resonates,
In a tunnel endless and wide,
Far to grasp,
And late to reach.

Lighthearted souls gathered about,
Their strength incomparable,
With their good willed hearts,
And eyes that beamed with exuberance.

As the day grew long and weary,
They danced in tune,
Smiled widely,
And fought bravely by my side.

His glare has pierced my skin!
From a million distant years,
Perhaps from another continent,
Another planet,
Another dimension galaxies away,
That felt all too close,
With those red eyes ablaze.

They fumed and howled!
Brimming with anger, guilt, and pain.
With tears overflown and nerves strained,
Of all the marionettes in his dying quartet.

He tugged their strings,
That made them dance,
Until they no longer could.
He pulled them together,
And made them quarrel,
Until one breaks the other.

He has laughed, rejoiced.
Then cries and repents.
He does as he pleases to watch them crumble,
For those are the amplified emotions array,
Of this monster in the making,

Hand in hand,
They were formed,
By passion,
By souls entwined.

In profound love they must be!
To set these delicate creations free,
Such divine sculptures,
Sentient in clay,
Each full in emotion and in minds that sway,
But none the same.