Monday, March 3, 2014

Lesser Art

If on the morrow I was gone and only this was in my stead, I'd be no more or less alive, but quick to vanish from your heart. I own no fact and have no form, I'm but a figment in your head; and thoughts are fleeting, memories short for painted dreams and lesser art.

It's sad to know that now lost time had entertainment at its base, and not some deeper task in tow; a chance to meld another's mind, to drain the wells of tearful eyes or just to know your gentle face... the gift of hours, words understood, a kindred soul, a quite rare find.

Our ships have passed this way again, and marked remembrance in each wave; though in the darkness shadows always ravage what was fresh and new. Your sails still fill with autumn breeze, your chill wind blows across our grave. I loved you then, but time's long past that I might languish here with you.

Know absence make the heart less fond and so you'll see when dawnlight breaks. Each passing tic, each breath exhaled will bring you comfort with our end. Now close your eyes and wish me well; believe I know the strength that takes. And I will venture one last look, then leave you to yourself my friend.

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