The Portrait

Another night in lonely shade. I ached again, where once we played in tender joys; when we were one. I ached for you. I ached alone.

But through the mists at last you came. You called me softly by my name, then held me as the teardrops fell. With gentle words you cast your spell.

And soon we were as long before in golden days that are no more. The days when you were all in all; before you slept beneath the pall.

But nearing now the ebb of dreams the morning broke. Its dancing beams; like sunlit waves above my head. I reached for you across the bed.

But fading through the misty shroud, you clawed the air. I cried out loud. Though fading still, I heard your call: "Look to the portrait on the wall!"

A drowning man with nothing left; in hopeless waking; twice bereft, I cursed the gods that in their play; should only give, to take away.

Beyond all hope now in despair; foregoing sleep and food and care, I made my vigil by your shrine; still waiting for some word or sign.

A thousand days (or was it one?) and yet I lay there still as stone. And now for all the world it seemed I had but slept. I had but dreamed.

With spirit crushed, and body spent, my soul engaged its long descent; I tumbled down, I tumbled on, I tumbled to oblivion.

But by some final act of will, I stretched my hand out tumbling still. I touched your portrait, called your name. And then you came. And then you came.