Alas, Alack, FIN!

It is a dry spell, this lost love.

In the operandi of letting go
you are plagued with a
reverie that has dismissed
its judgements, its manners,
its debts to its own consummation.
This recollection of what has been
is but a severed sentiment
unable to see with the sun
in its eyes, unable to feel
even under the fullest of moons
and surrealist eclipses.
Even if Time weren't
some sculpture we climb,
the past would be inborn numb
like sleep walkers cradled
by their soft steps
tussling like babies utterly
unable to grapple the stretch.

The brooding memoriam
would be crippled to beg
for an ending unlike this.
What is to fear most about such ends?
I do not recall birth
but I will bask in the gallantry of my death.
If I could remain suspended
in the moment of my heart's ease,
I would wield the Albatross
infinitely, with fire
in the palms of my hands.

Alas, such bloodless flames
Alack, the bloodless end.