There are only moments,
Quickly passing, so fleeting;
Sometimes it’s as if those moments
Aren’t even real,
But rather half-formed memories
From a deluded dread,
Bound and broken to repeat,
Until his life ended.
For him, in many ways,
That sorry, pathetic excuse
Called life was driven
Into the ground years ago,
The nails driven into the coffin,
The dirt burying him deep.
To know love but not hold it,
To see glimpses of a fantasy,
Because he knew she could
Never be his,
Kept life’s fragile thread
Tethered to what?
Hope?
That was the greatest folly.
He might just pluck the stars
From the night sky,
Name them his own,
Or count the multitude of sand
Lining every damn shore,
Waves pounding, drowning him.
“No,” goes the mantra,
“You will never be happy.
You are one for the fiery depths.”
Even though he is so cold,
Wonders at this fire, this brimstone,
A flash of green comes from above.
Sometimes, oftentimes, he has come
To relate that color to death.
This time, no, it is life.
It is hope.
The truth is given
As life bleeds out
And he gasps for sharp breath,
Every inhalation like a stab
To the chest.
The familiarity of that green deepens,
Then brightens.
Just as he ought to know no more,
He knows everything:
He knows love, hope,
Sees them in her green eyes,
Meant for one such as him.
02.16.10
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