Love Lost

When love speaks, her words are an orchestra

of harmonious sounds that resonate

rich and mellifluous in andante

mood.

 
When that love is lost, all that remains is

a sinew thin residue of moonshine

so fine, its threads stravaig - lost in greying,

cloud.

 
As sun sweeps away the last star from sky,

these faint airs, once immured in my brain, now

drift to the winds and scatter like seasons

past.

 
Should I feel remorse for daring such love?

Do I fear the scorn of scurrilousness?

Must I drink the cup of prosperity

now?

 
One day, I know the winds will once more blow

seasons my way, when icicles will drip

from sills and snow will thaw its rills over

me.

 
One day, I know the moon’s shine will dazzle

me with her crescendo of brilliant

legatos and motifs, and I’ll hear the

notes.

 
Until such time, the evocation of

stillness in the air ne’er dares me to pen

my woes, and write my thoughts with honesty

thus.