That spring, he had been writing to escape
The loss, and had immersed it under tides
Of ink. Not being someone who could ape
An absent feeling, but instead who hides
From other souls to gauge the bitterness
Of rocky shores, he knew the pain was dead.
Dark waters held no life. And less and less
Would he remember things that had been said,
And done, or not. That time was over. Hours
Contracted to a point, and disappeared.
And slowly he found old forgotten powers
Returning, thoughts he long ago had feared
Were gone, took flight as seeds borne on a breeze,
To touch the universe, and moments came
When pain released would bring him to his knees.
And sadness, all around, was set aflame
With beauty. There was wonder to redeem,
And darkness filled with light enough to dream.