Upon the vast expanse of blank parchment,
Unspoiled slabs of molding clay,
They lay unfolded before me,
As her earthly form once did sway.
The quintet of horizons,
Whirled in orbit around her soul,
As the globe revolves in homage,
To the radiant, golden sun’s control.
Yet the air I once inhaled,
Now has veered a different course,
And all that I bestowed upon her,
Contained the essence of my life’s discourse.
Oh, what wisdom I imparted,
She adorned as her attire,
Yet now my hands, embittered,
Rub against the clouds entire.
In the realm of what was everything,
Beneath the shadows, my hands do strive,
And the images once vivid,
Now drenched in hues of somber black arrive.
A stroll amidst the world outside,
Enveloped by the sounds of children’s play,
Their laughter echoes in the air,
Yet my soul bears a searing dismay.
Twisted thoughts, they dance and twirl,
A carousel within my mind,
I’m spinning, spinning ceaselessly,
As the sun sinks, leaving me behind.
Now my hands, they gently cradle,
Fragments of shattered glass,
Of what was once my universe,
Now diminished, a fading mass.
The images, once vibrant,
Now painted in the darkest ink,
A tapestry of love gone awry,
Turned my world to shades of black, I think.
All that was, has now departed,
A canvas tattooed with despair,
Every glimpse, every aspect,
Marked with the echoes of a love that’s rare.
In the tapestry of time,
A future where you’ll shine,
A celestial being in another’s sky,
But why, oh why, can’t that sky be mine?
[“The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.” – Ezra Pound]
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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