Shrouded Eyes Do Not Prove

I, like you, underestimate the depth

for one to properly submerge emotion.

For shrouded eyes do not prove

emotional death colored blue,

as obsidian eyes do.

Only hint at the inevitable fall

underscored by the game last played,

last lost,

and the last-place pennant dangles

as a pleasant reminder

(though heroes easily forget!)

of bygone love only so erased

as one claims it to be.

Leaves are often crumbled,

trampled upon, divested of life,

for such is a lover’s wont.

To draw closed the shutters

and shut out the memory

of a candle still alight, admonishing,

like a preacher rigidly avoided,

yet sought by moths just the same.

Forgetfulness desired,

we rally weary defenses

and fade,

building castles by the sea.

True, some envision themselves champions,

imagining victory attained,

as Lust overpowers Love’s essence,

and graffiti disguises its mask.

Run and play little one;

run and play

the colors may find you.

I may yet join in,

though I pray to never win or lose again.

Under the ice I will sit, to ponder.

Memory after memory may yet reveal

the depth easily accomplished

for the man I submerge.

As obsidian eyes do.

Keith E. Sparks Jr.

Copyright © 2004, 2019

Written in 2004, Later appeared in "Facets" 2019