Finding You In Times Of War (And Our Departed Dear)

No matter where, no matter how, no matter when, no matter what,
I do to find my way to you, my war shall find its way to me.
As long as I can find a way, search I shall forever but,
the day this war shall embrace me, consume me, extinguish me.
For now I watch a grieving candle, its tears of wax while turning stiff,
and the abject silence long but over, helps me wonder, what if, what if,
I had you resting by my side, would I feign a care to give?
would the war mean something then, would I deign a vigil to live?
Outside my window, an empire dark, and in its throne some flames light,
of all these lamps that welcome gaze, one must call me to your door.
Perhaps you must be sound asleep, or akin to me witnessing the sight,
a pool of blood mocking in the streets, under the lamps it has no shore.
Remember how we used to say, “the war can never haunt our dreams,
far it is from our haven here, where the only red is that of orchids.”?
How far from worry we were then, unreal at best it does now seem,
that Edens past how quickly deigns to turn its back to sights so horrid.
In the garden of delights forgotten long, blood is feeding every tree,
the war is calling out my name, still wanting me, and needing me.
I fear I must state something true, but something that does not make sense,
that is that if I truly knew, that you were mine and nothing less,
or if I knew this for a fact, that you could never love me, thence
this war would have surely ended my life, and my soul I must confess.
That is why in dying days, among the curtains burning down,
amidst the ruins of my years, betwixt the crumbling ashen walls,
I bleed when hurt, fall when wounded, weep while wearing a gilded crown,
and frozen is sardonic dear, bedridden child our name it calls.
A cradle held our love departed, bundled flesh of muted violence,
angel was thy race my child, thou wert whom we prayed well for,
and its mother, my one true love, practiced hatred, embraced silence,
you are whom I search this day, the memory of our child, our war.

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