Woebegone

2013-01-03 03:57 AM

Your smile is a panacea,
to cure the lassitude of a loveless existence;
the ineffable melancholy of solitude breathing down our necks,
made surmountable by your calm touch.

I dread that the ripples of a world uncaring
has turned my soul blind to colours;
my inability to fathom the depths of your rainbows,
rendered me woebegone.

My despair, indeed, a behemoth surely,
in the absence of your lithe body closer;
Indeed, I must reach your labyrinthine heart
to rid us both of this hollow

Fill me up with your euphony,
Sing, beloved, I need you to sing for me.
I must hold it in my arms,
the breath of your beginning.

Though I suppose reveries are made of this;
Silence is a harbinger,
truly have I not won such favours,
that I may seek even a life in your penumbra.

Oh the dread, how it washes over me.
That I may never meet her, that I may never smile at her.
Oh the dread, how it washes over me, truly.
That her closeness is so far away that the halcyon days of an existence based around her vanishes like a dead dream inside of me.

Joyless I will remain;
infinite is the black hole inside my chest, aching in her absence,
oh, how I ache in her absence.