LandscapeLandscapeMore Like This
These worn old bones
Were built listening to the whispered secrets of my eons;
Clothed in hardscrabble curves desolate and grudging,
The fragile bloom of innocence plundered long ago
Storm-wrought crags of old scars
Beneath a veneer of life gone harsh and dry, obscured
I am the product of my own time
And would keep my own counsel,
A monument to endurance, tenacity absurd
Harsh and arcane
Bitter and needless.
Yet incrementally, as the winds of solitude weather me,
Lay me achingly bare beneath the blind and heedless —
Callous fixed and far blue gaze
Dimmed by rheumy cirrus haze —
I am sculpted by my own unrequited desires.
Your eyes seek enigma
Inherently understanding the lyrical breathless magnificence
Of old pain, long scorned.
Wayfarer of my recondite ways
In limning my forsaken form with the light of your love
You redeem the years of waiting
To you, I yield
My every hidden beauty.