A poem

This is something I wrote years ago...but the recent loss of my brother has brought to mind feelings that I was having at the time I wrote this, so I thought I would share it with you. Precise visions dance through filtered memories. Pictures of a fatherless daughter who's beauty was timeless, as the night stars in her hair. Having partaken once, I now partake eternally. Oh, vile heart, yield to the unyielding face of truth. For unto you, she will not come and with you, she will never again be. As the wilting flower under winter's cold trespass, spring shall ne'er come to you this day. For a loving heart shall longing ache bring, unto he who wants not to stop wanting. Would but that the heat of love's passion could die as quickly under cold despair, as that wilted flower under winter frost. But, alas, even time moves slowly to he who awaits that which will not come. Dreaded days never cease, lasting longer than the will bears to stand. And the will bears to stand not at all in the relentless wail of rent spirit's demise. And yet somehow, these visions bring a nourishing repast. As the infant, suckling on warm breast, fears allayed by the scent of mother's milk, begins anew that perpetual quest for a nourishing love, even thus, mayhap the untold future shall rewrite this heart bringing youthful innocence to these ancient desires. Yet, if not, love's remembrance, though faint indeed when compared with love's truth, is riper still than reality's cold breast. Though her embrace was a million times more satisfying than these memories, the memories yet, are a thousand times more fulfilling than having never embraced. For in the embracing, we exchanged more than a touch. In that touch, we embraced an exchange of hearts. And the heart's memory lives long after the touch ends. Desperation hopes, as desire's fruit fails. In desperate failure, then, we hope anew. For in hoping, and remembering, loving still in lost love's wake, the past is yet the present, and in the future shall remain so, as long as we continue wanting to want. Keep it thus, I pray thee, for I have need still of memories. In these memories' arms then, shall I await a refreshing vision of that image. An image which, if love proves not altogether false, shall one day appear unto my heart, bringing renewed hope, and despair. Thus making time what time was meant to be, rather than this endless treadmill, upon which, regardless of one's speed, we are held perpetually in place, neither backward nor forward progress allowed. A stagnant mire, denying even the simplest of pleasures with which to mark our days in this agony of timelessness. Insidious fate hath brought me thus to this, and to this fate, thusly am I bound. By these unyielding strands of love's power, held fast in infinite turmoil and lasting hope, until love itself shall fail and die, granting me, at last, a dreamless sleep in the cold ashes of passion spent. Yet, how long must I wait, to see love fail. My love gives no sign of weariness, though my heart grows weary of the strength of my love. Is love eternal? Unending and forever as are my days and nights. Each unto itself an eternity of unfulfilled wishes, engulfed forever in their own sad refrain. Unmoving moments, broken only by the all to short relief gained from ghostly visions of yesterday's dreams. Sadly, thus I live. Consumed by the very fabric of my existence. A wicked fibre, the threads of which tie me to the shattered images of past days and the desperate hopes of impossible futures. Yes, I have need still of memories. Oh what tainted days are these that leave me thus, stricken and morose? Fettering me in weighted dreams and somber moods. I no longer care what senseless and idle efforts occupy my time. For efforts contain no merit when the underlying desire, the very reason for the effort itself, is but a feeble attempt, to move forward through unwanted days. In my youth, I dreamt often of the future. Welcomed the newness of unknown promise sought out the promise of new unknowns. Looking forward to each new dawn in robust anticipation. What evil fate is this, that at so young an age, has taken away all such hope, leaving me old and weary of mind, while still young of body? Is it a natural process, this degradation into melancholy? Brought on by unrequited love and fueled by hope's departure. I am in the prime of life. Therefore, should I not be living life to the fullest? Enjoying these bright summer days? And yet, I seek not to become enwrapt of worldly things. No longer do I eagerly await each new day, for no day is different from another. In unified monotony they reek of sameness and mundane actions. And yet, how can this be so? Was it not just a short while ago, that I cherished life so fully? Awakening at first light, so as not to miss a moment of its wonder. Caring not what lay ahead, for I embraced whatever came. Ahh, but that was before she left. I still felt the strength of her life's spirit. A spirit so bright, it cast shadows on my mind, blocking out all other things. Filling my heart with fire and uncontrollable need. Engulfing me in its agonizing beauty. And, for a time, my spirit blazed with hers. My passion grown to an excess, I had never before experienced. My soul she filled with unbridled hope of future joys. Aye, but there lies the root of the problem. For twas hope that spurred me thus to such heights. The wish for love returned, life shared, companionship gained. And hope is not reality, it is merely a wishful desire for something we have not, yet dare to want. It is in the having, that dreams come true, and in the wishing that dreams are born. Hope is naught but the inspiration for wistful dreaming. Were fulfillment gained, merely from these wish filled dreams of a hopeful love, then I would surely be rich indeed. But, alas, my wealth was naught but a transparent image. A temporal vision of my own dreams creation. So, here at last I sit. Remembering past hopes, chasing yesterday's dreams, facing an empty horizon of stark reality and tepid passions. Stark and alone, Hoping to wish again for dreams of a less empty reality. I shall stay, then, in these memories' arms, holding on in return with all my strength. Clinging to what is left of the life I chose, and the hopes I yet cherish, dreaming again the dreams I lost. Waiting for a vision of her beauty, longing for the touch of her hand. wishing and praying for her return. Alas, this is all that is left of me; an empty shell filled only with false promises, and unending desires. Nurtured by my love. Feeding on passion's last breath. Waiting for that which will not come,and remembering.