Fingers of melancholy rained over the canyon,
As the day grew golden and then into darkness,
How she never imagined of that rare magic,
In the tundra, in the marshes, in quiet moments,
In broken rocks and amongst the fragrant primrose,
Which nestled into the light of the planetary eclipse,
Where she lingered in the gasp of grief.
He still searched, for her –
Above the battlements and through the sharp steel,
Amongst the blood and strife forging
Within the somber labyrinth of shade and fate.
The horrible burn of love and of the bleak unknown.
He fought against the ruin as lives came and went,
Within the emptiness of it all, and witnessed only by satellites.
She followed the stellar light of millennia,
A venerable beacon of tomorrow’s impending dawn,
Glimmering with the gravity and misery,
She filled her shallow lungs with the thin, cold air
And caressed the fragile thoughts of him,
Before memories faded into the fog,
Drifting upward through the peaks and clouds,
Finally lost in nebulas of butterflies and gods.
He hunted for her essence, through the evergreens,
The rolling of rivers, under the thatch, between bones
And the knotted souls, only to descend into despair,
As the expanse of the sky fell to his armored shoulders
In waves of tragic familiarity drifting in a purple, raging sea.
Still, he persisted – peering in the blaze ascending
Through the perpetual field pulsing with the possible and mortal,
To grasp at the delicate virtue of her, in the shadows.
Surrounded by the merciless and the dying,
Vanished into the ferocity of purpose and deed,
Surrounded by nature’s mighty, calloused hand,
The horizon – It glowed, with a nourishing faith,
Flickering in his eyes, and then in hers – in unity.