To be Without Love

Tonight, bleared by tears, writing this ink of sadness,

I look down halls, decorated by masterpieces no one wants to see

To be alone is comparable to many things, all equaling nothing.

It is empty glasses, full of useless years and hours,

that ever merge, ever without comment or murmur,

as quick mornings drawn unto an immeasurable twilight

where tired yesterdays enfold desperate tomorrows.

A long time ago, still rich, young,

he packed his belongings, and burning songs

Dressed in his finest, he went to the train station

Minutes, months, birthdays, holidays, he waited

By and by the trains stopped arriving,

and still he stood, checking his watch

but she never came ... not her, ...

not anyone, ... not god

Often he returns, beholding swift departures

What he believed in is gone, ... a boat beyond the horizon

sailing to a country he always meant to visit.

Unable to cross the rift, he stands on the shores,

cautious of hoping for a miracle

Sighing, ... from his tired hand, a wine glass falls, shattering

Beautiful, sweet roses, trampled by heavy rushing hooves

Everyday, a thousand sheets all the same written

And still no sign on the meridian of the sky

The stranded realization he is forsaken

Guiding him is an autumn leaf, blown, tumbling,

under bridges, alleys, bypassing summers and springs

So many smiling couples - wincing, he hurries

in search of another world, or oblivion

The night is so cold - music, laughter, city lights, elusive

Shivering wherever he goes, the abyssal night swallows his wishes,

Gripping the ledge he tries again, and begs the great mystery

Afraid of falling, of dying young, incomplete

The desert road stretches on, and can only be walked.

He's nothing but a drifter these days

Diverging from one vanishing town to another

Exhausted, teetering, searching for a place of rest

He prays for everyone, and for a wellspring,

to wash his story away, or drown

The harsh weather has made him tough as leather and rock,

so he gives it another try, to cross the impassable mountains

That is where the road disappears

He sleeps and sleeps, this time not wanting to rise for ages,

not until the coming of a some unrecognizable future

or a time machine, or a spaceship to travel away in

Rain falls softly on dear pillows and city night streets

Somewhere, enfolded in blankets of unconscious imagination

he senses morning fields, filled with renewing flowers,

colors that are part of a passionate, unified, blue sky

Turning in sleep, there is a beautiful melody he almost hears

In his apartment, curtains billow in the cool night,

outlining the figure of a beautiful woman who perhaps exists.

After a time, as the spirit-dove, illuminated in neon-pink fire,

the impression gently departs to rejoin the Milky Way,

free to fly between the rifts of constellations,

to where they can be seen ever smiling,

as beautiful but ephemeral,

as the aurora borealis.

Author's Note

I wrote this a looooong time ago, but from time to time have felt like this. I simply decided to finish it once and for all.