This Epoch

I am an afterthought
to hold the place of desire,
To take the pain of loss
and subside the restless heart,
The want for a reason,
A leftover sense of trust
residing in unbridled youth.

Her fate is not on my hands,
Yet I am tied to invariable thoughts,
And sent tumbling towards
vain attempts at garish songs,
To play out an aging cast
as they dream, then and there,
Beautiful and so close to gone.

The end is asleep and unwritten,
One look is never enough and I
torture myself more than required,
Likeness does not equate to life
even provided an Earthly choir,
But perhaps in the shadows
of further pain, the truth and
death will reconcile.

Lights beckons me along,
I remain still with you in sight;
Is it love that left me here to wait,
Or has fear held me all the while?
Descent may leave me broken
or torn, this I know,
But fate, it seems, will unfold
whether or not I don my soul.

The End

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