I wonder
if a person might every really know
how cold it is one soul
may become
with time,
when constant is the silence
atones the natural course of our lives
to reduce our self worth
to a memory,
only that
just a reminder
that once we were,
and now,
perhaps we never really understood,
what that was we believed,
we often remarked then,
in the quiet of our lives,
we felt the truth,
the sweet beauty is
that grace
would be our swift and reliant beacon
through
a dense forest,
the virtuous nature of the human condition,
begging lost in the time drawn
reality of what
once we might call love,
now claimed fantasy,
yet,
when I sleep at night,
why is it then
in the quiet of my own
soft melody,
do I yearn,
why then
do I wonder
is this my passion,
the truth,
or simple lunacy.
Oh to believe in you,
beyond all other
shallow scrutiny.
© Scott F Savage 2019
apersonaljourney - stories of love 