Here I am, and There She is

Here I am, and there she is,
I sit on my parents' old chair,
but how dreamless her sleep is!
There has comfort, but here lies weary.

Here I write, and there she slumbers.
This poem I am writing is hers,
but her rest might not be mine.
My fate is a Fata Morgana of a face: a very fine one.

Here is my utterances, and there is her silence.
My symphony is drops of water in my bedroom,
but hers is a bedroom without gloom,
so we are a contrast... without a chance for resplendence.

But here I am, and there she is!
She lays peacefully, but I'm awake restlessly!
She is a butterfly, and I'm having one, too.
She flies in a bliss, but my psyche stays silly.

And here I write, and there she sleeps.
though she might have nothing, yet I save a thing so deep.
Psyche keeps making ignorance,
but Cupid keeps his love, and he wonders.

So here is my utterance for she who is silent.
My light is dim, and so my hope is.
Thus, what remains to utter from his love is only this,
"He who has stopped writing embraces the reminiscent..."

Jan 15th 2013, 01:12
P.S.: Not a Cupid.
"Why?"

"The Sleeping Writer", Deviant Art. Artist: Merida

Music Adaptation