A purple haze of lighted
bequeaths a mood of utter tenderness.
And yet we sleep alone again, no matter
all the loving feelings that have passed
between us in the past. And so I come
to question even this - this love you claim
to hold as true within your withered heart.
For your soul has ever
sought to speak
through me - no matter how I tried to turn
away repeated sorrowful appeals of its
embrace. It tells me still, that you have
never listened to its voice at all; for it only
lives within a pall of desert-like and dry
desertion - and that this state is all it ever
came to be in you.
And it matters not (not
even there, within
your soul), the many blind excuses that you
base your actions yet upon. For you still deny
this love of heart and soul and being.
Yet life and love are mysteries, no matter
any scientific attitude that claims to have
explained it all in reasoning. Can there be
a shade of pale left, that even I have yet to
come to speak to you...?
Yet on this, I must now
place my hopes and
dreams of future ever opening to love -
if only in the flight of all my dreams - for
still, some unknown other seems to stream
into these nights of one alone - where a
purple haze of lighted emptiness can still
bequeath a mood of utter tenderness
(somehow in me....)
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...