For walking as long as this
In the storms of sand and lost time
There would seem to be things that are lost in rhyme
And emotions I would miss…
Yet the words never mattered
To anyone but me
For these were fallen standards only I could see
All in a past left torn and tattered.
For she I wrote for is no more
And neither will she remain;
A heart so cleanly cleft in twain
Behind a closed and barred-tight door.
I left my pen and burned the paper
And tossed aside the writing table,
To walk as far as I was able:
To allow my memories to taper…
Now what is left to write for?
What is the value of such poetic currency?
Was all it was just held in memory?
Would it become nothing more?
And yet the words hold true…
As words would ever be:
The memory that is she –
The me still held by you.
Damn hindsight anyway:
As it laughs, as it knows,
There will always be her rhythmic prose.
As the desert falls away.