Wednesday, May 30, 2007

October 25, 2005

He woos with poetry not of his own
Gleaming words from long dead men
Shining marble across a carefully tended plot

His emotions, though tender, do not fuel my heart
It stays cold and unused, preserved under glass.
A plaque remembers its once warm heat and soft pulse
at times flushing fair skin; those times long past remembering.

In stasis, in waiting, in between time, in between space
in between what once was and what now seems
Out of love but wanting, out of hope but dreaming.
Without cause, force of will; sight of shore, sight unseen.

1 comment:

  1. Well, I am a bit late reading any of this. Regardless, I like this.