A shattered hope of vision come,
Ridiculed by others who were numb.
Hopeless romantic, a label they gave
when it was a lifestyle that he tried to save.
His own story telling, an end he sad came,
walking with hope but ending up lame.
And so the flame flickered, a fast dying resolve;
perhaps a new time came and he had to evolve.
A mirror reflecting on the past scenes,
wistful thoughts on past fulfilled dreams.
And yet none of these tales were of his own
but through the lives of others was his skill honed.
Sinking feelings, desperation
of the quicksand of mere narration
began gripping the soul of the poet.
A clawing despair lived out, but show it
he did not, for too much was at stake.
On his shoulders he bore friends awake
though the strength they saw he failed to see;
Lord, he turned this story to Thee.
Then, when dark night shrouded two,
the words he sought did now ring true.
And the embers buried beneath the ashes
did this story strike with fluttered eyelashes.
A marred moon rose, from yellow to white
as the life once hazy was again made light.
The reflection twisted upon the sea’s surface
as he listened and pondered his life’s purpose.
The story now finished, renewed hope in love;
hopeless romanticism granted from above.
But now, he saw from a new perspective
that his life’s purpose was defective.
He lived to tell the stories of his loved
and the ones that the beloved did love.
His own tale was one of telling
instead of in sadness dwelling.