. A lone, lorn traveler In silence and memory, Writes to one flame at night In a room where no answering Appears, only shadows speak With out lips to endear. A lone Traveler has time sutured to will Cast in a tomb of what might have Been. He scrawls on chalky sheets In the mausoleum of murk and dream, His flame was once a face, real as now, Filled with light unlike the later seasons Of split rooms crowding. So much of life There once was to be lived, her flesh, burnt Fertile, her eyes knowing promise, her blood Red rains of hair, endless sojourns beyond myth Or fable, a thousand barks, her swains over ocean Silenced by her lips of love for you, only, a lone traveler, Captain of all oaring ships launched from the plain shores Of loss under a cliff so high, where his once long devoted Before wrote a vow of love to all his follies, fates, travails And gave her hand, to bloom of youths so glorious. .