.
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.
.
