In the still of the night,
the silence does deafen me.
Calling out through time and space to she,
my cries go unanswered.
Echoes abound, astound,
exemplify, negate,
the tragedy of
what could have been,
just not to be,
I do now see,
wearily, emptily,
wantingly, waiting,
for that which will
never be,
I can so plainly see,
as my eyes betray me.
I fight the good fight,
un-winnably,
as my righteousness
abandons me.
Dark glasses
and
hills of mud,
the terrain in which
I find myself,
be illuminated
by
my own blindness.
This within reach,
so out of reach,
unreachable.
