Divorce of the Dreamers

During the feigning hours of the day,
Where the sun hangs his tiring gaze narrowly above the hills,
A countless concession of cohorts plagued my accosted mind;
And in this state of dark and light, in this realm of fragile possibility,
I swear a thousand separate ghoulish souls rose from purgatory-
To loot the only gift a treacherous man like me had ever achieved.

And when the wretched wander wearily from hearth to hearth,
and only stop their march upon the desolate sands of your birth,
You will see me among them solemnly standing detached;
Let every trace of beauty bleed from the star-filled sky,
and grace our tender cheeks with starburst tears and cosmic cries;
Am I to become such a zombified and ghoulish wretch?

A myriad of years ago, when first we declared our eternal love,
I dreamt every night a scene I regarded as a callow premonition;
I am not spellbound by conceit; Who am I, oh prophecy?
And here we stand, as we did all those years ago in coveting inhibition,
Upon sprawling sands in a moon-lit and desolate desert of our own,
And these wretches that have brought me to you, they have spoken:

"We are the trials of man; the builders of character and narrative;
Through us, you were born, and to us, you shall return,
And yet, before us, there was a sole architect;
You are the founder; you are the author of the infinite texts-
That soar and persist within your very soul and being;
We are the scars upon your mind and body."

And, oh! love, after you march every second of your life;
It all continually counts upwards, unyielding and unafraid in your wake,
Because no matter how you live, time will rot and fall away;
The shifting sands beneath the dark and bruised desert night,
Taste bitterly of everything you have ever known;
They sting against your eyes and breathe into you: macabre.

You are an angel a tragic such as I could never deserve;
Am I disillusioned to presume love to be a trick of the fates?
I question such in semi-jocular mood, for your gift I would disgrace;
Your beauty inflicts a warm paralysis of flush and childish bliss,
And reflects the mesmerizing glow of countrified twilights;
There is not prose, my little rose, that grasps your lovely sights.

I've carried in the hollow of my stomach aging anxiety,
That one day, the two twisted twines that tie us could-
Splinter, split, shatter, scream, and slowly slip away;
There is no intention in this resentful life that we dwell,
But we were blessed, we were sanctified by some divine benefactor;
There is not a soul that can arrange your energies but yourself.

Oh, how I've longed to meet you in this transcendental domain;
What is it that divides the bridges of mortal passion and pain?
If I could materialize a realm that would entrap us for eternity,
I would only hesitate at the utterance of your angelic discord;
Our factions have aligned for the favorite years of my life,
And to think now that our rivers would continue but divorce!

We met some years ago, two creatures not of flesh but clay;
In your heart, there burned a brilliant flame of thrall-less freedom,
And like a moth, no, a sailor to a siren, I wept at your eloquent say;
You found me desolate and frightened; Unformed and crumbling;
On that melancholy morning, you appeared beside the despondent,
And with your hands, dug into the earth and reformed my failing body.

You gifted me with the curse of cognizant mortality in empathy,
Yet now I stand among the forces of myself and claim autonomy?
If life was pleasing, I would never renounce you; Oh, if life was timeless;
The wretched have summoned me;  I have forever been a slave-
To those who offered me a sense beyond myself;
Who decides the importance of night and day? Not a fiend, not a fiend!

Mephistopheles, a herald of the coming darkness, warned me;
He claimed there to be no significance where blood still flows,
But to establish a greater emphasis on my mortal legacy;
Uriel had come upon his trail and with the fiend's departure,
Came the separation between night and day;
I am not a beautiful budding flower lasting to return every spring.

You preach to me, "the world favors us! fate will let us love forevermore,"
I tell you, "do not let fantasy overcome reality; we are not fabled lore!"
"Every day the eagle clutches the sun and wearily, the dawn will overtake shadow and illuminate the thousand fey creatures beside our lake,
Yet you tell me now that there are no absolutes in this plotted world?"
"I tell you now, there are none here, nor in your dreamworld."

It is an agony to tell you, the last vestiges of our love have perished;
I swear black tendrils slowly grip my heart mercilessly,
But while we stand alone here in this hollowed desert,
I recall the malicious dream I dreamt so naively before,
And love, it is only natural for stars to drift apart,
So I tell you, it is wise to cut the poisoned limb at the start.