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Portrait of the Artist as a Lone Tree


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For a friend

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Dreams of the dreamers tell their tales to me,
and sadly speak of things that cannot be.
Hard is the path we plough throughout the day,
when all the hopes wed lived for fly away.
Never at night to see that friendly smile -
that smiled, and loved; and loved you all the while.
Grievous alone the games you played as two;
empty, old pleasures shared in summers new.
You limp alone amidst the laughing crowd,
imagining they live their thoughts out loud;
and yet, when they return to lonely homes,
so many others go where silence roams.
Today, the depths of sorrow have no floor;
but life is long, and love will bloom once more.

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