The Barren land

I now know there will be no return of
you ever again, maybe

I would rather let it be
and leave you withering away from
my sore veins
medicined far prolonged with your
wawering distorted unbalanced friction of
hues mind has tasted
you in your sublime
rest wasted and thrown away
useless to my yearning
resident in mortality
the barren land

at utter most gives life to a pine
distorted with nothing to root in
measly twisted branches out lack of nutrients
a dwarf birch at most
starving suffering survival
a weakling unable to give strength or
height to climb as to scope beyound to navigate
possibilities in or to another life

you are lost from me, gone, away
simmering life out of me
senseless solitude of my puszta
eating away inside, grinding my mind
by shadows of a black hole

(I do still dream of you, of us)

gone
as life from
barren lands viewed
in moments to marked as beauty
but never in time to nurture any more life
blackest of holes of my puszta
forlorn darker than pain
strive away under
smile without
roots 

so weak to have requirements of
shine
nor last to give or to receive any
which it was to harvest, designed

scales of greys have blanketed skies for months, longer
oppressing all under, nascent hope or movement
skies get under your skin, only to disturb and turmoil
I wait, though it be
for sake of waste

clouds to darken beyond the darkest of any black
fire from raging thunders of light
for the dam of my eyes, to crack, crumble
cave, and release along years of harvested tears
to the barren land