The one who has him not but whom he loves?
Or the one who does indeed have him, though he loves her not?
A tear trickles down the side of my face,
I find myself chuckling at the cruel irony of fate,
Helpless I stand, sinking low,
the quagmire deep; effort of will inadequate.
Adrift like a leaf in autumn wind;
clarity, hope, life, meaning.
Must there not be some pattern,
to life's pathless meandering?
Must love be always so impotent,
futile in the face of the other's will?
Yes, said a whispering echo,
rendering the deep anguish still.
All I can do is live.
Love is all I may give.
The destination always a step further,
the mirage steady up until death..
And love? Can i ever stop living until I die?
Must I stop loving in the face of I?
With my aloneness a companion,
I traverse love and life,
I combat pain and strife,
and in peace it is that I draw a deep lungful of air,
knowing existence to be essentially alone,
finally swallowed by the marsh, I let go of despair,
I feel my breathing choked; then silent,
the thudding of my heart I continue to hear...