Memoir Of A Romance

A memory, our shadows suspended in time.
Remnants in disarray, as they’ve lost their rhyme.
In slow motion, we dance to a memoir of our romance.
A lover’s story of a second chance.
Ghosts from another century,
back in the cob webs of our history.
He blows the dust off of the cover,
opens the book, prose from a lover.
Suddenly, he sees blood pour onto his hands,
he drops the book, and as it lands,
the pages turn to a photograph of her,
clarity rushing from a brumous blur.
A tear falls and trickles down his cheek,
he questions his sanity or lack of sleep.
But somewhere deep within these walls,
a voice of an Angel beseeches, she calls.
Fervently she sings a siren’s song,
their perfect love somehow ended wrong.
He feels the sadness in the echoes he hears,
absorbs the beauty and ignores his fear.
Her translucent spirit appears to him,
upon her gown, she wears her sin.
And as she turns, he runs to her,
his loving kiss, her only cure.
Her spirit released from its prison that day,
free to roam, but he implores her to stay.
From every ending, a beginning is borne,
for even the rose (in all its beauty) is enveloped in thorns.