I thought afar, yet never wandered. Always saw that what I never watched.
For the distant blaze, I brought forth the horizon. But, the landscapes turned to patchwork swatches all at once.
By Speare you drove your votives, That which was a work of prose. By reality, it was as an artist's pose On a good kind of love.
For a lover is a writer, Whether with ink & quill Or lead & wood cylindrical. For a lover is a writer, Whether with chisel & stone Or dynamite & the mountains.
Whether they write in constellations Or draw in the sand on the beach, Time it will take us.
For time, it shall take us.
But, in time, Will there be that which is loving?
What say the scars unseen?
The deep peaks & valleys cut? That which you etch Without ever touching it?