The Cruel Wait

We've conjured our own tempest
Out of raging and ravaged spirits
Who seem less and less as the gloried youth
Of the formative years where,
Contention placed itself in wayward thoughts
The crimson treads on fickle veins
That cleave all the more to the life
We bathed in roses, in the romance-
Spring called its holy mountain
When you shimmered like the heavens
Golden threads and sapphire seas
When you confounded the sun with your duplications-
And I rivaled the Seventh Heaven for joy

But now we are like streams in the desert dying
Like dunes near a sea that cannot,
Heal its thirsty longings
I know the storm is coming
Yet I wait impatiently
As the swan whose dying lingers on-
As its beauty fades away.