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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