Shapeless Shadows In The Twilight
and he wandered through the twilight
in the thick of placid trees
mist curled about the base of the ferns.
between the knotted branches
faint glimpses of her could be caught.
she slid along the ground
in ghostly form; the shape of wind.
he was still searching, as he did every evening
since she was lost.
and she would be lost forever.
her spirit roamed the same place
where she died in her mortal life
and her form is drawn to the place
where her blood soaked the forest floor
and fed the underbrush.
the path she takes is greased with despair
she clings to the time when
she could have changed.
she could never have performed that heinous show,
taking, inviting him to witness her die.
why did she want to burden him with guilt?
he marches every evening just to tell her
hes sorry. surely he is sorry
for the harsh words shared that morning
but she, too, regrets the suicide.
she knows it was foolish, unplanned.
if she had stopped to think, even for a second
this would never have happened.
she treads upon her own grave,
pacing in the setting sun,
her translucent body filtering light like a prism.
so their evenings played out,
far into the bitter chill of the winter
until he was too sick to come out anymore.
he lay in his bed, tossing,
mumbling about what would never be the same.
and her lonely spirit still strolled into the depths of evergreen.
soon, yes, soon enough they would be seen together
united in the twilight
to greet eternity hand in hand.
the people in town would forget their story
just as soon as they all heard what happpened.
but what were they worth to them?
what is the worth of two hopeless lovers
whose fates unraveled before us like yarn?
what is their worth to a society
that is too apathetic to remember?
in our rights, did they really exist?