Wednesday, 24 December 2014
Should I write a Christmas eve's cheer, or wallow in dirge?
What my heart feels, that true I should write, with distinguished sight.
Here, in this woods, sunlit trees, happy kids with birds feed;
And I, surrounded by household heed, still alone, even with many deeds.
Absent, though present, dance, yet not dancing, laughing, yet not delighting,
For she, that girl in 10,000, even in years way past 1000, Much missing, painfully longing,
To hold once more and more, hoping, even in my death, stolen, my memories of me,
Remembering her, not remembering me.
The tears will not rise, not tonight. The joy will outlast the thickened dismissal of my confession. The misgiving of ...