The One Who Isnít There

Desperately he reaches for the one who isnít
there; squeamishly remembering that day
he chose to walk away from her. Wishing not
to face again the anguished, angry pace of the
hasty imminence of his departure. Yet now it
opens out into the very dreams he dreams by
night, and days become an endlessly repeating
melody of one alone against the world.

Oh, for the days they stood together, hand in hand
and heart to heart. How could he face himself
within the mirror of his soul, now that he had so
stoically withdrawn from love itself? So many
endless hours flawed; as beauty shrank in fear
from this - his beastly nature striking out at her.

Insensitive and numb, the weeks moved on,
consistently within a stance of great insanity.
Sleep became a nightmare then; no rest would
come to one who chose to never face the real
of feelings he thought ought to be denied. And so
they rose, these secrets that he kept, no matter
how he wished to dream of endless love with her.

As desperately he reaches for the one who isnít
there; even while he dreams his way back to
the daze of days that led him to his swift, and
still unalterable departure; white lightening
streaks through moods of everything he tries
to do to ease the ceaseless tension that he
wrought, just as the dream-world opens out
into a vision of magnificence, wrapping round
his heart and soul, when all the might have been
seems real again - but only in a dream...

? Michaelette ?

5/17/2001
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...