As the burn of fires burn
On ridges ripping skylines
The flakes of snow they paraglide
As fragile as my words;
When the seasons melt and turn,
Autumn journals fraught with by-lines,
Scripts of lovelorn suicide,
Of written pleas unheard.
As my words bring no return
From distant wires or telegraphs,
They vanish outward bound;
Deeds by silence do they spurn,
And my love reads its’ own epitaph
Its’ scope no longer can locate
And you no longer found.
How I wish for some reply,
Some signal from the stratosphere,
Contact or acknowledgement,
For each tear that I cry
In this lost and lonely atmosphere,
My love for you is testament
My future is my past.