Sublime


He walks silently from room to room,
Knocking about with nowhere to go.
She doesn’t love him, he can only assume.
No longer speaking, he can’t really know.

Stocked by ghosts of the past, future on hold,
Hunting the possible what-might-have-been,
His shadow falls flat on the floor, cold,
Chilled by the spirit of his latest sin.

Quiet time brings emotional meditation —
Tumbling, spilling outward, uncontrolled,
Without a meaningful line of direction.
Nothing in life to which to cling or hold.

These things must be preordained.
Recorded in the great book, the one of all time.
Mind breaking and soul-numbing pain.
Loss of love, the meaning too sublime.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.