I sit and think, of times that there were,
Of wind sighing in the leaves, and
The sunlight golden on her hair.
I look back, through the mists of time,
and I see the starlight in her eyes,
reflected brighter than the non-existent
moon.
I look back, on times of yore, and see there
a wall, old and crumbling, darkness seeping
in to poison life and joy, with the quiet sorrow
of half remembered pain.
I see her there, remembrance, turned cold and bitter,
Lies beyond those frozen gates.
They tell me to leave her, to go, to forget...
but how, when we stood there, her voice
smooth and quiet as liquid moonlight.
How, when I played for her, her tears
as shining jewels, precious, in their transparent
light.
How, when her voice, turned sharp and bitter
as broken glass, tore at my soul, how, when her voice,
broken now, and hoarse with the force of her screams,
whispered to me as she lay in my arms, blood red as holly,
warm and terrible as remembered love, remembered folly.
How, when she asked if I loved her, still, at the end of things,
even as her life drained from her, and her heart slowed its weary
work, and stilled beneath her pale breast?
How, when she had to ask, when she should have
known, the answer always...yes and yes.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
I sit and think, of times that there were,
Of wind sighing in the leaves, and
The sunlight golden on her hair.
I look back, through the mists of time,
and I see the starlight in her eyes,
reflected brighter than the non-existent
moon.
I look back, on times of yore, and see there
a wall, old and crumbling, darkness seeping
in to poison life and joy, with the quiet sorrow
of half remembered pain.
I see her there, remembrance, turned cold and bitter,
Lies beyond those frozen gates.
They tell me to leave her, to go, to forget...
but how, when we stood there, her voice
smooth and quiet as liquid moonlight.
How, when I played for her, her tears
as shining jewels, precious, in their transparent
light.
How, when her voice, turned sharp and bitter
as broken glass, tore at my soul, how, when her voice,
broken now, and hoarse with the force of her screams,
whispered to me as she lay in my arms, blood red as holly,
warm and terrible as remembered love, remembered folly.
How, when she asked if I loved her, still, at the end of things,
even as her life drained from her, and her heart slowed its weary
work, and stilled beneath her pale breast?
How, when she had to ask, when she should have
known, the answer always...yes and yes.
I write this, and though it exists only in the realm of imagination, of dreams,
still their pain cuts at me like knives, and draws forth the bitter tears.
Such is the power of words.
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