I can’t cry for her, for she is long gone,
She can’t comfort or hear me for death’s deed is done.
But some careless words, or a note in D minor,
Bring me to tears and beg I go find her.
Upon the image of her I dare not to look,
Upon her fair visage I dare not reflect,
Her turbulent life remains a closed book,
and my feet to its pages I dare not direct.
And so I am left with constant burning in my eye,
Where all moments of love and of beauty lay hidden,
To ne’er be released from the cell of my heart,
Where they fester and from where they’ll never be bidden.
It takes only a thought to be cast ever down,
A passing glimpse of a memory, happy or otherwise,
The image of her, whether in smile or a frown,
Is enough to make death a goal to soon realize.
They say “look at her and remember the joy”,
They say “let her live through your life and your deed”,
But I say, in turn, who’s the better for it all?
Not me, not my soul – the most who’re in need.
But I cry surrogate tears for the passing of others,
For deaths in the books or on screens or of lovers,
Each touch of the hand, each wishful fulfillment,
Sends the torrents I’ve dammed to the vaporous firmament.
Under guise of the strength men are said to posses
I carry the day, one step at a time,
I wear well the reticent mask of this flesh
which helps pass the moments as I straddle the line.
What more can I ask of this cold, barren land,
But to take in its fold these bitter remains,
And from shadows and dust to return once again,
A soul which a fraction of her goodness contains.
I fear to remain in a world void of her,
In a place so dark for lack of her flame,
A life lacking joy, with no hope and no luster,
Beheld by the scarring I can’t seem to tame.
But if the sorrow and burning tears I do quell,
If somehow I float o’er deathly waves of the martyred,
And if it’s not for me that these bells daily knell,
As whom better to live than the son of an angel departed?
