The Crossing

My friend,

No man can know when,

That final blow will strike his heart,

He has only the certainty it will.


As his eyes becomes oceans,

Thoughts become sails,

His fingers become his compass,

His face becomes his map.


Seated beside his companion regrets,

He stares into the pale moonlight,

Of a silent dawn,

His sights distant.


His reflection in the windowpane,

The ever-changing portrait,

Of an ageing stranger.


His aching mind weeps for the days,

He would cast his net relentless,

In search of his butterfly heart,

As his hands fall empty.


He surrenders to a madness of no returns,

Where he cannot feel love,

Holding his hand.


Come the winding down of days,

He may find beauty in all things,

Understand the value of time,

Spent in both joy and in pain.


He may hear the applaud of rainfall,

Even smile up at the clouds,

His heart pounding softly,

At beauty, his eyes had never seen.


Within this moment,

His time will have arrived,

Will already,

Have passed,


Will have stood at his side.



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