A Living Verse
I have borne witness to the happiest of days
When the poems of old friendship were sung with praise.
I have also witnessed the most difficult of times,
When those people stood by my side
Against those darkest of kinds.
And our journey did boast of the warmest of memories
As we sang the sweetest melodies under the evening skies,
And laughed and teased and played and grieved
As we neared the end of those happiest days
And among the staggering tomes of lifeless runes
Bearing verses of the strongest alliances
Long forgotten by time,
Among those staggering, lifeless works,
There still remained one living verse.
With the longest lines and endless rimes,
The memories continued to scribble along,
During every moment when, together, we jived.
This poetry of our friendship, forever, had thrived.-
For people may come, and people may go.
But the memories remain,
Even in dead verses...-
The roads are long,
The winds are strong,
And a cumbersome quest awaits.
I will drive forward,
'Gainst all the wavering winds,
Both nimble and strong,
Until I reach that journey's end
When all the roads converge
And all lives end...-
And on such solitary nights, I stand witness to the darkness engulfing the twilight in the same manner the empty blackness of the void between us fills the entirety of this heart.
The silence around me sings a melancholy tune that resonates with the elegiac melody sung by this desolate core within.
If only you were here to transform this elegy into a happy rime.
Alas, you lie oblivious to the cries of pain that this heart pours out towards you.
And till eternity, shall you lie waiting in vain.
Waiting hopelessly, for the lover that never came.-
I used to plunge into the most trenchant of abyss
In a desperate search for that powerful verse,
That ultimate quintessence of literary art.
But when sheer decades flew away,
And the powerful verse remained unattained,
And I slowly grew weary and lank,
I lost all hope and departed from the seas
To live amongst the piano, parchment, and the trees.
And as I wrote my own little verse,
While the broken sun continued to shine,
I thought about that powerful verse, and how
I wasn't deserving of such a rime.
And as I drowned in my own verses and rime,
In that esoteric instant, spoke the beloved Musa of mine.
And then I realized. That such a verse has never, ever thrived,
That each rime is its poet's own, and your verse is yours alone,
That in this endless ocean, you are your own verse.
Indeed, in this, you are that powerful verse.-
And it is now the end,
The end of days that shined.
For the things to which I'd held so hard,
Are slowly slipping away from the heart.
Slipping away... from what was once called mine,
Slipping away... into the cold washes of time.-
I have often observed, from volumes of writings and speech, that the typical aficionado of the literary arts usually suffers from a predilection of spouting out erratic waves of convoluted verbiage instead of resorting to more simplistic endeavors, thereby, at many times, creating a colossal imbroglio flush with ridiculously massive levels of verbosity that, despite their flamboyant appeal, contribute very little towards the edification of the average reader.
Well, as an individual who is not usually bent towards espousing such magniloquent strives, let me refrain from foraying into this maelstrom of bombastic floridity and resort to sheer limpidness in all my future literary and artistic endeavors.-
Infinite shards of nostalgia,
That pierced through our wistful eyes,
Forever ingrained in our melancholic minds.
But this flawless bond of friendship,
Which to forge, together we strived,
Forever, will thrive,
Untainted from ravaging times,
Undiminished across uncharted times-
And they were indeed beautiful, golden days,
When the flowers of good old friendship bloomed ever so great,
The blossoms that we felt would linger on till Great Eternity pleased,
But as time traveled by each day, their essence started to cease.
Until the once sheer multitude of those colorful, verdant blossoms,
Diminished into an arbitrary scatter of rumpled leaves and petals,
Whose now faint fragrances serve only as mere remnants,
Of a long forgotten, bittersweet memory,
A memory that slowly wilts and crumples away,
Like that of the fabric of old, yellowed paper,
That blows away into ashes with the slightest gust of wind.
Until a certain day arrived,
When only a single shard of remembrance survived.
A mere snapshot. Colorless. Beige.
From those beautiful, golden days,
When the flowers of good old friendship bloomed ever so great.-
Never, even in the oldest romantic tales,
Had there ever blossomed a love so pure,
And yet, so clandestine.
A love that I'd always preserved for you.
A love that you fail to consider.
And a love that I fail to confess.
-