It was dark then—a throng of shadows followed in ubiquitous pieces,
Unknown to us, as careless dreams, so disturbingly tangible,
Tantalizingly tasteful to the touch,
Weighed free from doubtful age, in youth,
But dreams were never quite enough.
I remember you so freely bounded by whimsical dreams;
Shouting frightful names into the very thing you’d become.
Your mind was of an absent space—
Filled with empty loathing and neglect for what could be,
But such a sin,
To self-condemn what you’d seen,
To pardon what you’d always been.
Tears, thereon, from your dismay, bled ready from the heart
As the windblown years of yesterday,
Drifted to the careless tune,
Of tomorrow’s everlasting suspicion.
Life, in those days,
Was measured in how well you could forget.
As of late, the past so mournfully speaks of the present—
By way, and evermore in the way,
Of words and thoughts,
You’d never hoped to keep.
A beautiful mind could not,
By beauty alone,
Convince the eyes,
So drawn to future’s inevitable surmise,
Of a transcendent hope—
A shallow grave—
Buried in the soul,
Whose fall was but the shadow’s rise.
It’s never clear what will become of us:
Time is frozen at the horizon
Where your lips reach out to embrace
One glimmer of eternity.
Time, the ceaseless thunder,
Marks your existence no greater than the one’s
You’ve left behind.
And for them,
Life has shown a greater peace,
Than you could ever hope to find.
It was always dark—
A looming shade at the brink of an incurable insanity.
You still search,
As men have searched lifetimes in such pursuit,
For what was always glaringly helpless.
Doubtful yet, that you,
At life’s last somber breath
Would finally see—
Washing the world with the helpless tears of your regret.
You would know,
What I had always known.
What you never could escape,
You had become—