Persistent Thing

Seamlessly out of reach, Coming to a grasp, Then just to leach, To lay down, A hand brushing out over these blades of grass, Touching, is it not? That he may find her, Such formlessness, When will the time come? Oh, the times there were, Though the times that may, Like cogs in a machine turning endlessly within this brain, Clouding the path, the dreams, Clouding all that could be, Clouding this life, this sight, so you may be a passer-by, A wish for you to be near, To spend the cold of the night within the comfort of your warmth, Lonely is the dark, ill-illuminated cage of my heart, So frightening at times, yet so understandingly comforting amongst others, So starts the spread of delusion, of fright, and of fear, To be happy for, What a joke! Harder than to pass through the iron maiden that is the guard to these thoughts, As the selfishness grows, And the jealousy ensues, No anger, but calming waves of sorrow, Setting in as it swallows whole, Stretching out the hand, A hope that continues, To crash yet again, To stand back up, And continue the trend, Wondering, when shall it all end?