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
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