On the heels of death

through bleakest night,

its various, ale soaked bars;

where sorrows drown

in hand held seas,

that tilt towards the stars.

Where those of yearning,

through false wisdom,

seek a solace in the tides;

their remnants swept,

by waves of impulse,

that mark the passing of their time.

They share in fables of a lifetime,

every thought, 

its word or deed;

each memoir altered

by a longing,

and it’s voracious, deep set need;

and talk of love,

its place, and theirs,

is futile as the day;

the sum of union,

has no bearing

upon single lives at play.

And though they share

the day’s pink embers,

in the consort of their kin;

they are forlorn

in all but number,

and the warmth that sears the rim. 

Though their solitude

is freedom, it 

is in freedom they are bound;

cast as shadow

into sunlight,

their contours merged with gilded ground.