This is life,

This is life,

Or something like it.

Oft time I may have tried

To find an alternative

But if there is one

It holds no

Blunt and rusted knife to

My throat.

And it will not spill

Itself across my path.

Not with you

As my guide

Through the wildest

Most devilish

Heart of it.

Love was

An invention

An anthem,

Without substance.

A singular notion

That held

No real truth for me

A commodity,

Bandied around

With little regard for

The genuine nature

Of its fragility,

And simplicity of purpose.

In truth,

It was a product

And in all likelihood

Short in supply,

Until, of a sudden,

I was deluged,

By the thrill of you.

And with no apparent

Counter balance

The fundamentals

Of the world changed.

As once again,

I stood, without foundation,

Falling, in spite of myself.

And still,

Failing to behold the

Full nature of the world,

And you,

In joyful co-existence,

For more than a moment.

But when you go

I feel its vacuous

Emptiness.

A lack of substance

Created by absence.

A vacant hollow,

Bleak and overflowing

With a thick,

Inky volume of emptiness,

The heavy weightlessness,

It contains overwhelming.

I am swamped by its totality.

A loss so profound

It will never be mollified

A vacuity never moderated

By the mundanity

Presented as the gift of time.

When in truth

Time itself does little

But move in perpetuity,

Onward, devouring

All that stands in its path.

A slow,

And endless tide.

Widening, inevitably,

At its rivers mouth.

A soporific delta,

Disguising truths, presenting of itself,

An open invitation,

A never ending,

Ceaseless, rolling charge

Into a future

That may never exist

Without you.

But contains fear

And oppression.

A deepening callousness

Dwelling, within the flow.

An indifferent sound

A shallow inflexibility.

And it is bound

To settle over me,

Whenever you are gone,

Even in sleep.

Perhaps as a consequence

Of life,

Not its lack.

And as a damp sad hand

Takes hold of me.

Heavy and moist,

With the slack clamminess

Of absence,

The sorry weight of goodbye,

I am lost in life.

Held within a cloud of

Infant butterflies

That lifts into the air

Whenever you are about

To re-appear,

And simply turns to snowflakes.

Dancing softly in the air,

Until at last they melt.

All that is left

Is a memory, and the ripple

Of colour with which

Their powdered wings

Have dusted the air.

And as I watch

It coalesce into the spirit

And opalescence of you.

It is only then

I know,

All will be well.

We are both home again

And the world

Is at one,

With both you and me

At its heart.