Strange sentiments of five years past have stayed neatly tucked away; I do not mourn them any longer but a small corridor within my heart still hungers for a person with beauty, once enduring, who no longer exists.
I cannot guarantee I would have been happier than I find myself lately; I cannot say I would have been a better man, had she happened the way I intended; nor can I guarantee the brightness I assumed our future would hold. I can promise that I would have loved her in a way that is now difficult to allow. I am left pleading to feel with the intensity she gave to me; I would have liked to know, even if it was fleeting: a love that felt passionate, daring, and complete.
eyes of white/wanderer, blinded
In worn hands rests a child who arrived with the dawn; through eyes of white the beauty shared between himself and a moon above, realized.
Behind eyes of white tears pool in swollen sockets streaming down sunburnt, freckled cheeks, to wash the child in drying rain; grief bestowed upon the gift he reaped.
Through eyes of white his child's purpose understood— bringing trust born from new life rather than forged and aged which must overcome. A life untarnished he vows to protect more carefully than he did his own, with a firm hand and willing heart a child will be raised in a pride always recognized as its own.
A mystic being once pure walked the Earth alone, he is finally home.
