Patterns on the Mire

 

Rain falls softly on my field of remembrance
Years spent in the evening gloom
As the breeze breaks through my song
And I recall the echoes of a life long past

In truth, it was but a memory’s glance at salvation
For all it was worth
I never saw a smile which did not pierce my heart
With agony
With judgement
With lost hope which dared not lift its face

My confessions reach beyond the veil I drew in sorrow
Sorrow for the many truths which now lie in dust and mourning
Forgotten and torn for vultures to devour
As my soul dies gently in dreams which know no end

A heart painted black by pain, which even now you hide
An empty wish spoken to the bearer of mine eyes
But vision fell deep upon the stains you still carry
And I looked hard into your soul, and saw no tears
Only blind rage coursed through the brush you held
As I ran into the wilderness of remorse

There, behind all the laughter
Falling from each whisper of my spirit’s breath
Lay a pain which cannot find retreat
For there is no morning to embrace the dew
And no night for my setting sun
Not even a teardrop to dine upon the soil

Do not wonder at the reason
When the bells toll upon my grave
Do not dare to shed your tears
For it was you who placed me beneath the stone

The garden grows tall with the recollection
That only the ghosts are willing to speak
The rust and ruin of forgotten yesterdays
Self-evidence within the patterns on the mire
As my silent novel fearfully repeats
And marks but one last word upon a fading memory
Why?

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