It’s Better
Whereupon the words oft spoken
Love, torment, grief.
Tis better, it has been said,
To be tormented instead
By an endless winter of grief
Thieve’s tools stealing away the sun
The light, the moon, the path, the way.
Than to never let the light shine in the darkness.
Harken back to our youth
Love disappeared as easily as our pain
Again and again we ran.
One day she knew my feelings flew
Soaring through endless clouds
Where my heart and mind often lay
Floating on a breeze.
She sees an endless winter I have never seen
She feels an endless winter I have only in a dream.
So I clutch her close in memory
Foreheads aflame and touching so
I dare to dream of what lay inside of me
And thus proclaim that I must know.
Full of dread of dreary days
Of being led down a maze.
A minotaur waiting in the shadows
Guarding history
Fables forging
Fires burning
Churning minds seeing, perceiving, weaving so clear.
And to my dear dear
When you are so near where I need you to be
It entices me to embrace that torment
To succumb to that grief
So that I may share in spaces I nakedly aware.
For Lindsay, envy, love.
