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| End To Symphony |
| The jester came to sit upon my knee, and drop tears that failed to wet, as, if in loss, it was imaginary and not the real image of love, just pieces of dream and comments, memories, all boxed and framed neatly, with no dust or covered top, removed from indicative purpose, there being no activity to any moment, or suggestion to solution. The lover realized that patience is a long-winded contender in time's attache and, perhaps, feelings would emerge later if any loss should finally surface dreaming of what was not opposed in the center of the mind's eye that is clouded in reason shards that it was not to be from conception. The waking conscience could not but help to analyze from which sprang a wonderment that pain's seeds were not sown, that sorrow did not shake inside, more a dullness of acceptance, a riding expectation of the occurrence, like a tiny messenger in wait to deliver the final notes of the dark symphony to end. � 2000 DPMcClellan |
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