I sit, in a trance, and see the snow
lightly falling like sifted flour;
a serene scene as I relive, again
the “what” of you and me

I watch you standing there
awash in white satin at aisle's end
you walk between empty gilded pews
all afloat amid warm cotton clouds
of some celestial chapel

A faceless priest gives witness
as our eyes lock in mocked silence
as we exchange muffled vows
which only He can hear

But then, as always, I awake
to no matrimonial victory march
but a sense again of these
shackled feet and hands
amid memories which seem to shuffle
down some damp and darkened street

I feel the tears and years
beneath this withered rind
but I will always cherish
these scars, which outgrew you
and the brilliance of the ore
which we once mined

01/06/2009

Author's Note: I enjoy being "in the moment" of lost love. Call me sick, but it inspires me!

Posted on 01/06/2009
Copyright © 2010 Tony Whitaker