As ever, time's grand falsities replay
The pathos that is she shapes in me a voice
It says that all is true among the leaves
The ones that fall as winter wields its way
Moving through a slow yet ardent rain
She conjures a nothingness I once knew
A nothingness to compensate all things
Stray of tides and worlds that can't remain
In her blue trajectory all my hours collapse
My days reduced to where they don't exist
All that now exists exists within her eyes
Secrets there collide, to form a new synapse
But I can never know them, I am not dream
I am not taste I am not touch
I am not life I am not death
I am scarcely what I seem
A place that sleeps now extends around her
Would she know it if it were to wake?
Or would it correspond to autumn rain?
In a time without its sense, would it matter?