The Fugitive and the Infinite

I’ve felt this way before
and will feel this way again.
Uncertain of the difference therein,
all the while feeling its immediacy.

Slow days of murky gray
where raindrops fall so lightly.
One by one, soft and persistent,
like the tick of this clock.

There’s this continual ebb and flow,
to feel one way and then another,
knowing it couldn’t be different.
Nor should it ever have to.

To be someone
means that you cannot be another.
A bold and graceful performance
plagued forever by fragility

Wandering in a stone courtyard
of obelisks that stand vigilant.
Windswept leaves adorn the ground,
bled of their color and vigor.

A statue of pale stone,
you spoke to me with but a stare.
Your weathered surface beckons,
a revelatory light hidden in shadow.

To surround you with life
would perhaps be enough
to break your unrelenting surface
and set free all that lies within.

See through, and see you.

Because I threw you the obvious

to see what occurs behind

the eyes of a fallen angel.

Eyes of a tragedy.

The night is howling. Listen.