The Crossing

My friend, in truth no man can know,

When that final blow will strike down his heart,

He has only the certainty it will.

Turning his eyes into oceans, thoughts into sails,

His fingers into a compass, his face into a map.

He may find himself seated beside his companion regrets,

Staring at the pale moonlight each silent dawn.

With sights fixed on the distant,

His reflection in the window,

The ever-changing portrait of an ageing stranger.

His shifting shade of self weeps for time,

Wanders lost through a wasteland of dreams.

Where he casts his net relentlessly,

In search of his butterfly heart,

His hands fall down empty.

He surrenders as most,

To a madness of no returns,

Where he does not feel, love, holding his hand.

Come the winding down of days,

Man will find love in all things,

And learn to understand the value of time,

All moments spent in joy and in pain.

Then he may hear the applaud of raindrops,

As he smiles upon the clouds,

With the drum of his heart pounding soft,

At beauty such as his eyes had never seen.

By this moment; his time will have arrived,

Will have already passed,

And love will have stood at his side.


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