bears the face
of a disembodied lover's
hover, ever present like a mid-december
shiver, as it slithers from the past
into the conscious, ever present,
with its alchemy transmuting
honeyed memory to bitter
expectation not fulfilled,
not in the future,
in the name of love
when silence is stripped,
and takes your hand in the
silver glow of soft moonlight,
like cassandra, to the gramophonic
music of the noise of thoughts so thick
you could hear a pin drop.
loss takes the shape of
a hollow in time.
in a field of perpetual possibility,
loss is the absence,
the sixty-foot veil between
man and deification.
through the darkness of futures past
footfalls echo in the memory
steadily receding past the circle o'
sycamore trees into the violent
silence that devastates a feeled
field into a patch of grass,
barren, with the vague awareness
that the loss of love is nothing
compared to the loss of life.
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