By: Jonathan Garren
What remains of me when the fugue breaks
And I am left alone on the sleepy banks
Of the Lethe? Will my love drown beneath the
Grasp of shades, my humanity left to drift
Like listless flotsam fated for the eternal
Wash upon Elysium tides?
Shall I drink instead from the Mnemosyne?
Shall I remember all, yet still be far
From your touch, still lost to your memory?
Shall I know you always from a distant shore?
Will I find you when I break from this
Disease that occludes my mind from the fruited
Tongues of Paradise? Will my soul return with
The golden bough and escape these bleak
Will time still sibilantly sweep the years
From our faces? Will you grow old
While I remain young? Or will I return,
Only to find you languishing drunk
On the fallacies that wash perfumed
Upon the retracted felicity of Lethean shores?