Modest Impressions

I have long since been resigned to the delusion of being obsolete, 

and abandoned. 

Independent to the politics of love, 

but inadvertently trampled by the dark, 

lonesome,

hopelessness that compliments broken hearts. 

My soul was arrested by thirst and forbidden to drink; 

my countenance--

my virtue famished, and unfed.

I was in every sense, 

a neglected handful of embers burning low in a forgotten grate. 

Absolutely Lost.

Every dream, 

gentle and soft as dreams tend to be that nestled in the embrace of my arms, 

that found comfort in the passion of my wandering soul, 

have all flown away. 

To many nights have I awoken to empty mockeries of how they,

would never leave me.

To this, I impressed upon my heart, 

that it might remain there to heed me in the time of trial. 

Imprisoning my eyes behind a black canvas of denial. 

Never do I wish to invite again, 

the sweet madness that seizes men's hearts when they stare at one, and no others. 

 Alone, 

I will never have to trust a woman to suffer such a blind lamenter. 

To withstand such an old soul who would have candles brought in to surround me in the dark, 

even though I am amaurotic. 

I am so alone that sometimes, I can feel vacant embraces. 

Thankfully, as vulnerable and frail as love can be, 

for it is true that love be not love unless love is frail, 

that its very countenance is ever, and lasting. 

That is to say, the heart will never quit.

Not because it does not learn, on contrary it learns rather immediately; 

but rather that it will refuse to give up.

I hold every belief that the day will come 

when I will arouse myself to the dawn of a sun who's warmth I will have all but forgotten. 

And beneath the warmth I will find a companion to soothe the sting of loneliness. 

To walk with, 

and to wait on me.

To be my eyes -

my hands - until together,

we can paint my dark cell with translucent colors;

so I may look upon she who is brighter than winter afternoons.

And there will be no hesitant restraint, 

nor repressing of joys and vivacity. 

In each chance meeting of stirred emotions to find what the others caprice might be, 

our tones would be gentle. 

My name pronounced by your lips, 

will come with a peculiar voice that would no sooner revive my withering heart;

than it would make it yours

She would put life into it.

By the sweetness of her consolations, 

and to the comfort of her mere presence,

I could never give her up to any other pleasure. 

Regardless of the quantity offered to me, 

any small amount of that blooming light and bliss which would rise in her features 

would be well worth the sacrifice. 

My very soul demands that satisfaction.

To love with the passion that could hold no hazardous confidences, 

to appeal to the magnanimity of it all. 

Even repressed embers and fluttering candles would have a luminous glow for the unsightly.

Oh, to be blind and see!

I delight in this warm consciousness.

It brings to light and life my whole nature. 

Blind as I am, a smile could still play its way across my cicatrised visage, 

and joy would run the length of my brow until it spilled over, 

and I would be happy blind.

Though these convictions rattle my soul I do not utter it aloud, 

the feeling is enough.

And yet, 

even in my sentiment I shall wonder thus: 

How any woman would suddenly rise on my lonely hearth? 

What enchantment would be cast to bring in the destiny of a moment, 

two halves of the same soul? 

To be wrapped in each others company so that night might merge with day,

and hearts would play on desire.

Oh. may you be possessed by the ideas and views of everything I could not begin to imagine. 

I would have it so, when you speak, 

I could listen for hours and feel all the sunshine I would ever want to feel in your voice. 

In your presence.

I know you are not yet gone.

I still hear your kind singing over the woods and in the sky on Sunday walks. 

Their specific songs hold no music for me, 

but I believe,

all the melodies of the earth will be naturally in your voice. 

I hear them now, 

kind fairies that sing beneath the stars and lull me to sleep.

They whisper soft consolations to draw on my centre. 

And it eases me:

I am coming. 

Wait for me.