Death of a Romantic
He told himself;
If only, you could hold on'
'if only, you had been strong'
'if only, on those dark and lonesome nights,
under the orange glow of the ancient gaslight,
some illumined flicker of love had lit my way,
instead of the chimera of hopes false dawning day.
He spoke in soft words;
'you have peered through the settling twilight,
seen the emptiness of your own eternity,
here without a 'you', filled with only a 'me',
if only there had been another,
this tardy spirit might have tarried,
instead of feeling forlorn, lost and harried'.
He told himself;
'I carried roses once,
in a wicker basket, in my heart,
plucked by the scent of loves first start;
Those thorns had pricked my senses,
and sent them reeling with this imaginary love,
cascading across some sultry summer dance floor,
in whirling time with my great pretend paramour'.
He told himself;
Why!, when you knew all along,
that your open heart was bled dry,
did you even try,
or believe, even for a moment,
that in this hastened silence,
life, might afford you one last chance?
'foolish boy'!...did you not know,
the only love in this life was in your heart,
and only in the gift would it start.
Love was never yours to have, nor hold,
for it is only for the beautiful, and the bold,
not for the hideous and delicate romantic,
love in such, is but a rod for the back!
He told himself;
This ledge is not so high!,
it does not seem so far,
and if i fall,
the ground will not seem so hard,
certainly no harder than this barren heart,
no higher, than the mountains i have scaled,
upon whose heights of loneliness i have wailed,
no further in truth,
than the distance of times yearning years,
or the constancy of gathering tears.
He said;
This cliff faced wall, it does not seem so tall anymore,
scored against the gathering distance,
of time left denied,
swept upon these seas i have cried,
this leap seems not so far to me,
no further than the countless 'leaps of faith' i have made,
the revelations and moments of heartache, left dismayed.
He peered into oblivion;
Watching as the slow clouds rolled homeward,
and felt his soul slip amidst them.
Moistened dew drops tickling his cheeks,
and wondered, one last time,
whether he would ever miss those streams,
his forlorn golden dreams,
the hauntings of this stark reality,
the enduring emptiness of his heart filled misery.
For even sorrow is a friend, in the end.
He stepped into the void;
To feel the rush of the cold wind greet his rosy cheeks,
and recalled how he had longed to see the same, as he fell,
full blush, soft spoken, tremulously wept, heart broken.
Plummeting down, never to be found,
for once spoken, love departed,
brushing sensate lips,
caressing the broken hearted.
He saw clearly the ground rise;
To meet him,
to greet him,
to know this stranger,
who having flown so long,
in rarefied skies,
approached now at speed,
where once wings had upheld his need,
reality plunged upon its surface,
caught in the gravity of this loveless disgrace.
He wondered:
Will it hurt?
Not so much as the years of countless burnings,
the heartfelt bonfire of hopes endless yearnings,
ashen moments of passions rising heat,
the licking torment of a solitary retreat.
For as the desolation of his loveless form descended,
he smiled, calmly, and knew that this agony was ended.
In that momentary light of resignation,
the certainty of his end,
this wretched lonesome Romantic,
began to apprehend, and quick,
the futility of that constant search.
His heart shrunk into the wild rock,
and fused with the stony truth of it.
"That one!
I'll take that one,
to sculpt."
© Richard Michael Parker 2011
