The ache, the break, the complete deconstruction
Of a soul. Love’s greatest irony continues
To float out of reach like a dandelion
On the breeze, drifting with ease.
Thoughts meander, dreams scatter,
And everyone settles. Because nothing
Perfect can remain, obliterate and color drain
From any heart still beating.
Overflow from one gaze to the next,
Doubt expects and Hope regrets.
Pain sits on the edge of a four-post bed,
And with nonchalance that injures
The past, offers his hand. Who else to hold
On to now that chance has left,
Passing through a setting sun,
Blazing alone in a breathless sky
Without a single touch of warmth?
Fire too cold to stay alive; it burns
Any extended gift. Yet the torment
Of a self discomposed infects the eye
And deflects the possibilities of anything
Else. However, the promise never made
Hangs in a web of too often remembered
Mistakes. It takes the strength that kills
The core to move on with a worthless cause.
Nevermore shall a wish be granted
Solely to perpetuate happiness lacking.
Instead, silence accentuates the broken spirit
And reminds the world not to attempt—
Never step, up to a deceptive dream.