05-25-2011, 02:52 AM
The browning shrubs around the lonely grave,
the days we spent on softer seeming grass,
the former now is all I have to save,
love through the walls of my heart cannot pass.
We kept no pictures, the albums are bare,
a need to capture redundant, we thought;
o how I yearn to hold but one lost hair,
a gift before you left the mortal port.
No loss of mine will trump the loss of you,
the mate long vanished into a lone death;
an age ago our passion fiercely grew,
but since has drained like your departing breath.
The face I touched is now a dying dream.
The last sound you made I hear as a scream.
the days we spent on softer seeming grass,
the former now is all I have to save,
love through the walls of my heart cannot pass.
We kept no pictures, the albums are bare,
a need to capture redundant, we thought;
o how I yearn to hold but one lost hair,
a gift before you left the mortal port.
No loss of mine will trump the loss of you,
the mate long vanished into a lone death;
an age ago our passion fiercely grew,
but since has drained like your departing breath.
The face I touched is now a dying dream.
The last sound you made I hear as a scream.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe