I am the shadow born of the flame,
I am the thought that hath no name.
I see no God, no perfect one,
They foul the dreams with wicked puns.
Stroll through the gardens in autumn's fire,
Trudging through ice, unquenching desire.
Of beauty's passed and heavenly grace,
A whispered wish but grudging embrace.
Fear and pain of a forgotten time,
Floods of memories begging for a rhyme.
The future is a mistress grim,
The nostalgia is but a goddess of whim.
Many paths diverge to a Neverland,
Many more bring us to where I stand.
A rush to fulfill tearful smiles,
A sprint to overcome unending miles.
Ebbing are my faltering words,
No rustling leaves, no whistling birds.
