No title as of yet
Possibility is an oh so strange thing
It gives and takes away hope
from the most brazen of idealists and dreamers
Tossing and turning the ideas of the inventor
In every which way
It being the loophole in the mathimatician's achievement
He was never an idealist
nor an inventor
nor a mathimatical genius
He was merely a youth entranced in love
Yet the touch of possibility affected him more than any
He was laying under the Yggdrasil tree
Slowly picking it's fruit passing the days
A similar image of hephaestus when glanced upon
Tho perhaps less so
His eyes not those of an unblinking god
Rather of an uncertain mortal
Then as slowly as night turns to morning, he too turned
Turned to her and loved more than ever those moments
The laughs, joys, fights, even the silence
All that was the They, he enjoyed
Perhaps as an editor in life he fails
Only seeing things from the hindsight
That which is 20/20
But as a director in life, theirs, or his, he fails doubly.
Thinking such things could be meant to last.
Then he thought to himself on this word, meant.
As if pre-ordained or destined
He refuted it and took off on his nimbus cloud
Powered by heaven and hope
He sought and sought
Yet was not sought in return.
For it was she who loved him so much
She could not keep him
For she gave her happiness to the world
That they might share in it
And it was he who mourned her loss
She being his deepest love and dearest friend
Yet he respected her wishes
Wandering still to this day
As the day turns to night, he looks behind him still
Not for hope or possibility of change
But instead, of wonder
Wonder if perhaps she somewhere stares onto the horizon
As he does
And smiles
It gives and takes away hope
from the most brazen of idealists and dreamers
Tossing and turning the ideas of the inventor
In every which way
It being the loophole in the mathimatician's achievement
He was never an idealist
nor an inventor
nor a mathimatical genius
He was merely a youth entranced in love
Yet the touch of possibility affected him more than any
He was laying under the Yggdrasil tree
Slowly picking it's fruit passing the days
A similar image of hephaestus when glanced upon
Tho perhaps less so
His eyes not those of an unblinking god
Rather of an uncertain mortal
Then as slowly as night turns to morning, he too turned
Turned to her and loved more than ever those moments
The laughs, joys, fights, even the silence
All that was the They, he enjoyed
Perhaps as an editor in life he fails
Only seeing things from the hindsight
That which is 20/20
But as a director in life, theirs, or his, he fails doubly.
Thinking such things could be meant to last.
Then he thought to himself on this word, meant.
As if pre-ordained or destined
He refuted it and took off on his nimbus cloud
Powered by heaven and hope
He sought and sought
Yet was not sought in return.
For it was she who loved him so much
She could not keep him
For she gave her happiness to the world
That they might share in it
And it was he who mourned her loss
She being his deepest love and dearest friend
Yet he respected her wishes
Wandering still to this day
As the day turns to night, he looks behind him still
Not for hope or possibility of change
But instead, of wonder
Wonder if perhaps she somewhere stares onto the horizon
As he does
And smiles